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l%^“fr?W;^Til)ran*, iMcK^rilldicion. Issued 'I'ri-V^elf'l?!' "«y yuWM'm\VTr'pr 
igiiCed 1885, by George Miinro— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates — M’eh IJ 










MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASDE LIBEARY-POOKET EDITION. 


Ko. tmcE. 

1 Yolande. Bj William Black.... 20 

2 Molly Bawn. The Duchess . 20 

8 The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By‘"Ouida” 20 

5 Admiral’s Ward, By'Mrs, Alexander.. 20 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. . . « 20 

3 Wanda. By “ Ouida ” 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dickens. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. Miss Mulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By Gaboriau. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The Duchess ” 10 


15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte BrontA..... 20 

16 Phyllis. By *• The Duchess ”... 20 

17 The Wooing O’t. By Mrs. Alexander,, 15 

18 Shandon Bells. By WUliam Black.... 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin, By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise. By William Black 20 


2S David Copperfle’d. Dickens. Vol. I.. 20 
23 David Copperfievd. Dickens. A^ol. II. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. II.. 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duchess ”... 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. I, 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. H. 20 

27 Vanity Fair, By William M. Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott ..... 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. “ The Duchess ” 10 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By ” The Duchess” 20 

31 Middlemarch. Bj^ George Eliot 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

33 TheCliqmeof Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 
84 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot ... 30 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede By George Eliot 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 30 

38 The Widow Lerouge. By Gaboriau.. 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton ....... 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens . . .. 16 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau.... 20 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William Black. . 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant... 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Rcade.. 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant.. ^ 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Black... 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 


By AVilliam Black 20 

61 Dora Thorne. By the Author of “ Her 

Mother's Sin” 20 

62 The New Magdalen. Bv Wilkie Collins. 10 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

64 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By the Au- 

thor of “Dora Thorne” 20 

65 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas. ... 20 

66 Phantom Fortune. Miss Braddon.... 20 

67 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6 20 


NO. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. 


PRICE. 
D.C. Murray 10 


59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstej’^ .'. 20 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper. . 20 

61 Chai lotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson . 10 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Fenimoi-e Cooper... 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. By- Charles Gibbon . , 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 

By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. . 30 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By the 

Author of ” Dora Thorne ”. . . . ... 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

70 White Wings. By William Black .... 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell., 20 

72 Old MyddeJ ton’s Money. By M. C. Hay 20 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” ; 20 , 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M.E. Braddon 20 | 

75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas... 20’ 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 I 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens. ... 15 

78 Madcap Violet. By William Black... 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

80 June. By Mrs. Forx’ester. 20 

81 A Daughter of Heih. By "^^m. Black. 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey. . . 20 

83 A Strange Story. Bulwer Lytton ^ 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens... 10 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell.. 20 

86' Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

By Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman. Captain Marryat 20 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballantyne. 10 

90 Ernest Mai travers, Bulwer Lytton.. 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 20 

92 Lord I^ynne's Choice. By the Author 

of ”■ Dora Thorne ” 10 

93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiography.. 20' 

' 94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. . . 30 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballantyne If 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. AA'alter Besant. . 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 15 

99 Barbara's History. A. B. Edw’ards. . . 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 

Jules Verne 20 

101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins.. . 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell. ... 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobey. 30 

105 A Noble W ife. By John Saunders. . . 20 

106 Bleak House, By Charles Dickens. . . 40 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. . 40 

108 The Cricket o the Health, and Doctor 

. Marigold. By Charles Dickens. ... 10 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss Braddon 10 

111 The Little School-Master Mark. By 

J. H. Shortbouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah, By John fliU ^ 



PEVERIL OF THE PEAK 



y ■ 

By SIR WALTER SCOTT, Baxt. 




NEW YORK; 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27VANDEWATER STREET. 


“ r* , ' ■ ' ^ 

MABH 3HT 30 JI.R3V.33 


\'f)di /liah 'rpaUi'yini’.q ;s\f\ I tfirt- TJ-rsncerr ftrah '{u^. Yf.r I 
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'V'^",. fnia^rdr;:', r ..'^><v<c.^:)ril ?'> TB’yx^off (idtafl/H'nnd': ^ 

lood .i;.a*..i v/nioff^uv nar’.J <u'/ria-.»7 oa ^ol aqialiott ro/i i , 

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1 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


If my readers should at any time remark that I am particularly dull, they 
may be assured there is a design under it.— British Essayist. 


INTRODUCTION— (1831.) 

If 1 had valued my own reputation, as it is said 1 ought in pru- 
dence to have done, 1 might have now drawn a line, and remained 
for life, or (who knows?) perhaps for some years after death, the 
“ingenious author of Waverley.” 1 was not, however, more de- 
sirous of this sort of immortality, which might have lasted some 
twenty or thirty years, than FaistaJBf of the emboweling which was 
promised him after the field of Shrewsbury, by his patron the Prince 
of Wales. “Embowel’d? If you embowel me to-day, you may 
powder and eat me to-morrow!” 

If my occupation as a romancer were taken from me, I felt 1 
should have at a late hour in life to find me out another; when 1 
could hardly expect to acquire those new tricks, which are proverbi- 
ally said not to be learned by those dogs who aie getting old. Be- 
sides, 1 had yet to learn from the public, that my intrusions were 
disagreeable; and while 1 was endured with some patience, 1 felt 1 
had all the reputation which 1 greatly coveted. My memory was 
well stored, both with historical, local, and traditional notices, and 
1 had become almost as licensed a plague to the public as the well- 
remembered beggar of the ward, whom men distinguish by their 
favor, perhaps for no better reason than that they had been in the 
habit of giving him alms, as a part of the business of their daily 
promenade. The general fact is undeniable — all men grow old, all 
men must wear out; but men of ordinary wisdom, however aware 
of the general fact, are unwilling to admit in their own case any 
special instances of failure. Indeed, they can hardly be expected 
themselves to distinguish the effects of the Archbishop of Granada’s 
apoplexy, and are not unwilling to pass over in their composition, 
as instances of mere carelessness or bad luck, what others may con- 
sider as symptoms of mortal decay. 1 had no choice save that of 
absolutely laying aside the pen, the use of which at my time of life 
was become a habit, or to continue its vagaries, until the public 
should let me plainly understand they would no more of me; a hint 
which 1 was not unlikely to meet with, and which I was deter- 
mined to take without waiting for a repetition. This hint, that the 


4 INTEODUGTIOI^ TO PEVEKIL OP THE PEAK, 

reader may plainly understand me, 1 was determined to take, when 
the publication of a new W averley novel should not be the subject 
of some attention in the literary world. 

An accidental circumstance decided my choice of a subject for 
the present work. It was now several years since my immediate 
younger brother, Thomas Scott, already mentioned in these notes, 
had resided tor two or three seasons in the Isle of Man, and, having 
access to the registers of that singular territory, had copied many of 
them, which he subjected to my perusal. These papers were put 
into my hands while my brother had thoughts of making some lit- 
erary use of them, I do not well remember what, but he never came 
to any decision on that head, and grew tired of tne task of transcrip- 
tion. The papers, 1 suppose, were lost in the course of a military 
man’s life. The tenor of them, that is, of the most remarkable, re- 
mained engraved on the memory of the author. 

The interesting and romantic story of William Christian especially 
struck my fancy. 1 found the same individual, as well as his fa- 
ther, particularly noticed in some memorials of the island, preserved 
by the Earl of Derby, and published in Dr. Peck’s “ Desiderata 
Curiosa.” This gentleman was the son of Edward, formerly gov- 
ernor of the island; and William himself was afterward one of its 
two Dempsters, or supreme judges. Both father and son embraced 
the party of the islanders, and contested some feudal rights claimed 
by the Earl of Derby as King of the Island. When the earl had 
suffered death at Bolton-le-Moors, Captain Christian placed himself 
at the head of the Roundheads, if they might be so called, and found 
the means of holding communication with a fleet sent by the Parlia- 
ment. The island was surrendered to the Parliament by the insur- 
gent Manxmen. The high-spirited countess and her son were ar- 
rested, and cast into prison, where they were long detained, and very 
indifferently treated. When the Restoration took place, the countess, 
or by title the Queen-dowager of the Island, seized upon William 
Dhdne, or Pair-haired William, as William Christian was termed, 
and caused him to be tried and executed, according to the laws of 
the island, for having dethroned his liege mistress, and imprisoned her 
and her family. Romancers, and readers of romance, will generally 
allow that the fate of Christian, and the contrast of his character 
with that of the high-minded, but vindictive Countess of Derby, 
famous during the civil wars tor her valiant defense of Latham 
House, contained the essence of an interesting tale. 1 have, how 
ever, dwelt little either on the death of William Christian, or on the 
manner in which Charles II. viewed that stretch of feudal power, 
and the heavy fine which he imposed upon the Derby estates, tor 
that extent of jurisdiction of which the countess had been guilty. 
Far less have I given any opinion on the justice or guilt of that ac- 
tion, which is to this day judged of by the people of the island as 
they happen to be connected with the sufferer, or perhaps as they may 
look back with the eyes of favor upon the Cavaliers or Roundheads 
of those contentious days. 1 do not conceive that I have done injury 
to the memoiy of this gentleman, or any of his descendants in his 
person ; at the same time I have most willingly given his represent- 
ative an opportunity of stating in this edition of the Novel what he 
thinks necessary for the vindication of his ancestor, and the reader 


IKTEODUCTIOK TO PEVERIL OP THE PEAK, 


5 

will find the exposition in the Notices, for which Mr. Christian de- 
sires admission.* 1 could do no less, considering the polite and 
gentleman-like manner in which he stated feelings concerning his 
ancestry, to which a Scotsman can hardly be supposed to be indif- 
ferent. 

In another respect, Mr. Christian with justice complains, that Ed- 
ward Christian, described in the romance as the brother of the gen- 
tleman executed in consequence of the countess's arbitrary act of 
authority, is portrayed as a wretch of unbounded depravity, having 
only ingenuity and courage to rescue him from abhorrence, as well 
as hatred. Any personal allusion was entirely undesigned on the 
part of the author. The Edward Christian of the tale is a mere 
creature of the imagination. Commentators have naturally enough 
identified him with a brother of William Christian, named Edward, 
who died in prison after being confined seven or eight years in Peel 
Castle, in the year 1650. Of him 1 had no access to know any- 
thing; and as i was nof aware that such a person had existed, I 
could hardly be said to have traduced his character. It is sufficient 
for my justification, that there lived, at the period of my story, a 
person named Edward Christian, “ with whom connected, or by 
whom begot,’’ 1 am a perfect sti anger, but whom we know to have 
been engaged in such actions as may imply his having been guilty 
of anything bad. The fact is, that upon the 5th of June, 1630, 
Thomas Blood (the famous crown-stealer), Edward Christian, Ar- 
thur O’Brian, and others, were found guilty of being concerned in a 
conspiracy for taking away the life and character of the celebrated 
Duke of Buckingham; but that this Edward was the same with the 
brother of W ijliam Christian, is impossible, since that brother aied 
in 1650; nor would-1 have used his christened name of Edward, had 
1 supposed there was a chance of its being connected with any ex- 
isting family. These genealogical matters are fully illustiated in 
the notes to the Appendix. 

I ought to have mentioned in the former editions of this romance, 
that Charlotte de la Tremouille, Countess of Derby, represented as 
a Catholic, was, in factj a French Protestant. For misrepresenting 
the noble dame in this manner, 1 have only Lucio’s-excuse — “ I 
spoke according to the trick.” In a story, where the greater part is 
avowedly fiction, the author is at liberty to introduce such variations 
from actual fact as his plot requires, or which are calculated to en- 
hance it; in which predicament the religion of the Countess of 
Derby, during the Popish Plot, appeared to fall. If I have over- 
estimated a romancer’s privileges and immunities, I am afraid Ihis 
is not the only, nor most important, case in which I have done so. 
To speak big words, the heroic countess has far less grounds for ac- 
tion of scandal, than the memory of Virgil might be liable to for his 
posthumous scandal of Dido. 

The character of Fenella, which, from its peculiarity, made a 
favorable impression on the public, was far from being original. 
The fine sketch of Mignon, in Wilhelm Meister’s ” Lehrjahre,” a 
celebrated work from the pen of Goethe, gave the idea of such a be- 
ing. But the copy will be found greatly different from my great 


* See Appendix, No. I-, 


G Iiq’TRODUCTIOiq' TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

piototype; nor can 1 be accused of borrowing anything, save the gen- 
eral idea, trom an author, the honor of his own country, and an ex- 
ample to the authors of other kingdoms, to whom all must be proud 
to own an obligation. 

^Family tradition supplied me with two circumstances, which are 
somewhat analogous to that in question. The first is an account of 
a lawsuit, taken from a Scottish report of adjudged cases, quoted in 
note K, at tlie end of the volume. 

The other — of which the editor has no reason to doubt, having 
often heard it from those who were witnesses of the fact — relates to 
the power of a female in keeping a secret (sarcastically said to be 
impossible), even when that secret refers to the exercise of her 
tongue. 

In the middle of the eighteenth century, a female wanderer came 
to the door of Mr. Robert Scott, grandfather of the present author, 
an opulent farmer in Roxburghshire, and made signs that she de- 
sired shelter for the night, which, according to the custom of the 
times, was readily granted. The next day the country was covered 
with snow, and the departure of the wanderer was rendered impos- 
sible. She remained for many days, her maintenance adding little 
to the expense of a considerable household; and by the time that the 
weather grew milder, she had learned to hold intercourse by signs 
with the household aroimrl her, and could intimate to them that she 
was desirous of staying where she was, and working at the wheel 
and other employment, to compensate tor her food. This was a 
compact not iin frequent at that time, and the dumb woman entered 
upon her thrift, and proved a useful member of the patriarchal 
household. She was a good spinner, knitter, carder, and so forth, 
but her excellence lay in attending to the feeding and bringing up 
the domestic poultry. Her mode of whistling to call them together 
was so peculiarly elfish and shrill, that it was thought, by those who 
heard it, more like that of a fairy than a human being. 

In this manner she lived three or four years, nor was there the 
slightest idea entertained in the family that she was other than the 
mute and deprived person she had always appeared. But in a mo- 
ment of surprise, she dropped the mask which she had worn so long. 

It chanced upon a Sundaj’’ that the whole inhabitants of the 
household were at church excepting Dumb Lizzie, whose infirmity 
was supposed to render her incapable of profiting by divine service, 
and who therefore stayed at home to take charge of the house. It 
' happened that, as she was sitting in the kitchen, a mischievous 
I shepherd boy, instead of looking after his flock on the lea, as was 
. his duty, slunk into the house to see what he could pick up, or 
perhaps out of mere curiosity. Being tempted by something which 
was in his eyes a nicety, he put forth his hand, unseen, as he con- 
ceived, to appropriate it. The dumb woman came suddenly upon 
him, and, in the surprise, forgot her part, and exclaimed, in loud 
Scotch, and with distinct articulation, “ Ah, you little devil’s 
limbi ’ The boy, terrified more by the character of the person who 
rebuked him, than by the mere circumstance of having been taken 
in the insignificant offense, fled in great dismay to the church, to 
carry the miraculous news that the dumb woman had found her 
tongue. 


INTRODUCTION TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 7 

The family returned home in great surprise, hut found that their 
inmate had relapsed into her usual mute condition, would commu- 
icate with them only by signs, and in that manner denied positively 
what the boy affirmed. 

From this time confidence was broken betwixt the other inmates 
of the family, and their dumb, or rather silent, guest. Traps were 
laid for the supposed impostor, all of which she skillfully eluded; 
fire-arms were often suddenly discharged near her, but never on such 
occasions was she seen to start. It seems probable, however, that 
Lizzie grew tired of all this mistrust, for she one morning disap- 
peared, as she came, without any ceremony of leave-taking. 

She was seen, it is said, upon the other side of Ihe English border, 
in perfect possession of her speech. Whether this was exactly the 
case or not, my informers were no way anxious in inquiring, nor 
am 1 able to aulhenticate the fact. The shepherd boy lived to be a 
man, and always averred that she had spoken distinctly to him. 
What could be the woman’s reason for persevering so long in a dis- 
guise as unnecessary as it was severe, could never be guessed, and 
was perhaps the consequence of a certain aberration of mind. 1 can 
only add, that I. have every reason to believe the tale to be perfectly 
authentic, so far as it is here given, and it may serve to parallel the 
supposed case of Fenella. 


Abbotsford, Isi July^ 1831. 


8 


APPENDIX TO INTRODFCTION. 


APPENDIX. 

No. 1. 

The following Notices were recommended to my attention, in the 
politest manner possible, by John Christian, Esq,, ot Milntown, in 
the isle of Man, and Unrigg, in Cumberland, Dempster at present 
of the Isle of Man. This gentleman is naturally interested in the 
facts which are stated, as representative of the respectable family of 
Christian, and lineally descended from William Dhone, put to death 
by the Countess of Derby. 1 can be no way interested in refusing 
Mr. Christian this justice, and willingly lend my aid to extend the 
exculpation of the family. 


HISTORICAL NOTICES 

OP 

EDWARD AND WILLIAM CHRISTIAN; TWO CHARACTERS IN PEV- 
ERIL OP THE PEAK.” 

The venerable Dr. Dryasdust, in a preparatory dialogue, apprises 
the Eidolon, or apparition of the author, that he stood ‘ ‘ much ac- 
cused for adulterating the pure sources of historical knowledge;” 
and is answered by that emanation of genius, ‘ ‘ that he has done 
some service to the public it he can present to them a lively ficti- 
tious picture, for which the original anecdote or circumstance which 
he made free to press into his service, only furnished a slight 
sketch;” “ that by introducing to the busy and the youthful, 

“ ‘ Truths severe in fairy fiction dress’d,’ 

and by creating an interest in fictitious adventures ascribed to a his- 
torical period and characters, the reader begins next to be anxious 
to learn icliat the facts reaUy were, and how far the novelist has justly 
represented them.” 

The adventures ascribed to “ historical characters ” would, how- 
ever, fail in their moral aim, if fiction were placed at variance with 
truth; it Hampden, or Sydney, for example, were painted as swin- 
dlers ; or Lady Jane Grey, or Rachel Russel, as abandoned women. 

” Odzooks! must one swear to the truth of a song?” although an 
excellent joke, were a bad palliation in such a case. Fancy may be 
fairly indulged in the illustration, but not in the perversion of fact; 
and if the fictitious picture should have no general resemblance to 
the original, the flourish of * 

“ Truths severe in fairy fiction dress’d,” 

were but an aggravation of the wrong. 

The family of Christian is indebted to this splendid luminary of 
the North for abundant notoriety. 

The W illiam Christian represented on one part as an ungrateful 
traitor, on the other as the victim of a judicial murder, and his 


APPEKDIX TO IHTEODUCTIOX. 


9 

iDrother (or relative) Edward, one of the suite of a Duke* of Buck- 
ingham, were so far real historical persons. Whether the talents 
and skill of Edward in imposing on Fenella a feigned silence of 
several years, be among the legitimate or supernatural wonders of 
this fertile genius, his fair readers do not seem to be agreed. 
Whether the residue of the canvas, filled up with a masterly pict- 
ure of tire most consummate hypocrite and satanic villain ever pre- 
sented to the imagination, be consistent with the historical character 
of this individual, is among the subjects of research to which the 
novelist has given a direct invitation in his prefatory chapter. 

English history furnishes few materials to aid the investigation of 
transactions chiefly confined to the Isle of Man. Circumstances led 
me, many years ago, to visit this ancient Lilliput; whether as one of 
those “smart fellows worth talking to,” “in consequence of a 
tumble from my barouche,” “ as a ruined miner,” or as “ a disap- 
pointed speculator,” is of no material import. It may be that tem- 
porary embarrassment diove me into seclusion, without any of the 
irresistible inducements alluded to; and want of employment, added 
to the acquaintance and aid of a zealous local antiquary, gradually’ 
led to an examipation of all accessible authorities on this very sub- 
ject among others. So it happened, that 1 had not landed many 
hours before 1 found the mournful ditty of “William Dhone” 
(prown OY fair-haired 'William, this very identical William Christian) 
twanged through the demi-nasal, demi-guttural trumpet of the car- 
man, and warbled by the landlady’s pretty daughter; in short, mak- 
ing as great a figure in its little sphere as did once the more impor- 
tant ballad of CheVy Chase in its wider range; the burden of the 
song purporting that William Dhone was the mirror of virtue and 
patriotism, and that envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitable- 
ness, operate the destruction of tire wisest and the best. 

Themes of popular feeling naturally attract the earliest notice of a 
stranger; and 1 found, the story of this individual, though abun- 
dantly garbled and discolored on the insular records, full of circum- 
stances to excite the deepest interest, but which, to be rendered In- 
telligible, must be approached by a circuitous route, in which 
neither elfin page, nor maiden fair, can be the companion of our 
walk. 

The loyal and celebrated James, seventh Earl of Derby, was in- 
duced, by the circumstances of the times, to fix his chief residence 
in the Isle of Man from 1643 to 1651.f During this period he com- 

* Not the Duke described in Peveril, but the companion of Charles I. in his 
Spanish romance. 

t His countess resided at Latham House (her heroic defense of which is well 
known) until 1644 or 5, when she also retired to the Isle of Man. A contempo- 
rary publication, the Mereurius AuUcus, by John Birkenhead, says, “ The 
Countesse, it seems, stole the Earl’s breeches, when he fled long since into the 
Isle of Man, and hath in his absence played the man at Latham.” This insinu- 
ation is certainly unjust ; but the earl seems to consider some explanation 
necessary, “ why he left the land, when every gallant si)irit had engaged him- 
self for king and country.” Danger of revolt and invasion of the island con- 
stitute the substance of this explanation. There is reason, however, to con- 
jecture, that he had been disappointed of the command he had a right to 
expect, when he brought a considerable levy to join the king at York. Any 
explanation, in short, might be listened to, except a doubt of his loyalty ana 
ardent military spirit, which were above all impeachment. 


10 


APPEXDIX TO IXTKOOUCTIOX. 


posed, in the fo;-m of a letter* * * § to his son Charles (Lord Strange), aa 
historical account of that island, with a statement of his own pro- 
ceedings there; interspersed with much political advice lor the guid- 
ance of his successor; full of acute observation, and evincing an 
intimate acquaintance with the works of Machiavelli, which it ap- 
pears, by a quotation,! that he had studied in a Latin edition. The 
work although formally divided into chapters and numbered para- 
graphs, is professedly desultory,! and furnishes few means of de- 
termining the relative dates of his facts, which must accordingly be 
supplied by internal evidence, and in some cases by conjecture. ^ 

He appears to have been drawn thither, in 1043, by letters^ inti- 
mating the danger of a revolt: the “ people had begun the fashion 
of England in murmuring; assembled in a tumultuous manner; 
desiring new laws, they would have no bishops, pay no tithes to the 
clergie, despised authority, rescued people committed by the Govern- 
or,” etc., etc. , 

The earl’s first care was to apply himself to the consideration of 
these insurrectionary movements ; and as he found some interrup- 
tion to his proceedings in the conduct of Edward Ch'mtianl an at- 
tempt shall be made, so far as our limits will admit, to extract the 
carl’s own account of this person. “ 1 was newly ^ got acquainted 
with Captain Christian, whom 1 perceived to have abilities enough 
to- do me service. 1 was told he had made a good fortune in the 
Indies; that he was a Mankesman borne.” “He is excellent good 
companie; as rude as a sea captain should be; but refined as one 
that had civilized himself half a year at Court, where he served the 
Duke of Buckingham.” “ While he governed here some few years 
he pleased me very well,” etc., etc. “ But such is the condition of 
man, that most will have some fault or other to blurr all their best 
vertues; and his was of that condition which is reckoned with 
drunkenness, viz., covetousness, both marked with age to increase 
and grow in man.” “ When a Prince has given all, and the favor- 
ite can desire no more, they both grow weary of one another.”** 

* Published in Peck’s Desiderata Curiosa, in 1779. 

t Peck, p. 446,— fortiter calumniari aliquid adhaerebit. 

X Peck, 446. “ Loath to dwell too long on one subject,” skip over to some 
other matter. 

§ Peck, p. 434. 

II For a history of this family, established in the Isle of Man so early as 1422, 
see Hutchinson’s History of Cumberland, vol. iii. p. 146. They had previously 
been established in Wigton shire. 

t This is an example of the difficulty of arranging the relative dates ; the 
word newly, thus employed at the earliest in 1643, refers to 1628, the date of the 
appointment of E. Christian to be governor of the Isle of Man, which office he 
had till 1635 (Sacheverill’s Account of the Isle of Man, published in 1702, p. 100), 
the earl being then Lord Strange, but apparently taking the lead in public busi- 
ness during his father’s lifetime. 

** Peck, p. 444. There is apparently some error in Hutchinson’s genealogy 
of the family in his History of Cumberland ; 1st, brother, John, born 1602 ; 2d, 
died young; 3d, William, born 1608; 4th, Edward, Lieut. -Governor of the Isle 
of Man, 1629 (according to Sacheverill, p. 100, 1628). This Edward’s birth can- 
not be placed earlier than 1609, and he could not well have made a fortune in 
the Indies, have frequented the Court of Charles I., and be selected as a fit 
person to be a governor, at the age of 19 or 20. The person mentioned in the 
text was obviously of mature age ; and Edward the governor appears to have 


APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. 


11 

An account of tlie earl’s successive public meetings, sbort, from 
the limits of our sketch, is extracted in a note* from the headings 
of the chapters (apparently composed by Peck). In the last of these 
meetings it appears that Edward Christian attempted at its close to 
recapitulate the business of the day: “Asked if we did not agree 
thus and thus,” mentioning some things (says the earl) “ he had in- 
structed the people to aske; which happily they had forgot.” The 
earl accordingly rose in wrath, and, after a short speech, “ bade the 
court to rise, and no man to speak more.” “ iSome (he adds) were 
commitied to prison, and there abided, until upon submission and 
assurance of being very good and quiet, they were released, and others 
were put into their rooms. 1 thought fit to make them be deeply 
fined; since this they all come in most submisse and loving manner." \ 
Pretty efficient means of producing quiet, if the despot be strong 
enough, and \yith it such love as suits a despot’s fancy 1 ^moug the 
prisoners were Edward Christian and his brotlier 'William of 
Knockrushen ; the latter was released in 1644, on giving bond, 
among other conditions, not to depart the island icithout license. 

Of Edward, the earl says, “ 1 will return unto Captain Christian, 
whose business must be heard next week” (either in 1644, or early 
in 1645). “ He is still in prison, and 1 believe many wonder thereat, 

as savoring of injustice, and that his trial should be deferred so 
long.” “ Also his business is of that condition that it concerns not 
himself alone." “ If a Jurie of the people do passe upon him (being 
he had so cajoled them to believe he suflEers for their sakes), it is 
likely they should quit him, and then might he laugh at us, whom 
1 had rather he had betrayed.” “ 1 remember one said it was much 
safer to take men’s lives than their estates; for their children will 
sooner much forget the death of their father than the loss of their 
patrimonie.”j: Edward died in custody in Peel Castle in 1650,§ after 

been the younger brother of William Christian, a branch of the same family, 
possessing the estate of Knockrushen, near Castle Rushen, who, as well as Ed- 
ward, was imprisoned in Peel Castle in 1643. 

* Peck 338, et seq. “ Chap, viii. The earl appoints a meeting of the natives, 
every man to give in bis grievances; upon which some think to outwit him, 
which he winks at, being not ready for them, therefore cajoles and divides 
them ; on the appointed day he appears with a good guard ; the people give in 
their complaints quietly and retire. Chap. ix. Another meeting appointed, 
when he also appears with a good guard. Many busy men speak only Mankes, 
which a more designing person (probably Captain Christian, a late governor) 
would hinder, but the earl forbids it; advice about it appearing in public ; 
the Mankesmen great talkers and wranglers; the earl’s spies get in with 
them and wheedle them. Chap. x. The night before the meeting the earl 
consults with his officers what to answer; but tells them nothing of his 
spies ; compares both reports, and keeps back his own opinion; sends some of 
the officers, who he knew would be troublesome, out of the way, about other 
matters: the (present) governor afresh commended; what counselors the 
properest. Chap xi. The earl’s carriage to the people at his first going over ; 
his carriage at the meeting to modest petitioners, to impudent, to the most 
confident, and to the most dangerous— them who stood behind and 
prompted others. All things being agreed, Captain Christian cunningly be- 
gins disturbance; the earl’s reply and speech to the people; Christian is 
stroke blank; several people committed to prison and fined, which quiets 
them.” t Peck, 442. f Ib. 448-9. 

§ Feltham’s Tour, p. 161, places this event (while a prisoner in Peel Castle), 
on the authority of a tombstone, in 1660, “John Greenhaigh being governor.” 
Now, John Greenhaigh ceased to be governor in 1651; the date is probably an 
error in the press for 1650. 


12 


APPENDIX TO INTEODUCTION. 


an imprisonment of between seven and eight j^ears; and so far, at 
least, no ground can be discovered for that gratitude which is after- 
ward said to have been violated by this family, unless indeed we 
transplant ourselves to those countries where it is the fashion to flog 
a public otticer one day and replace him in authority the next. 

The insular records detail with minuteness the complaints of the 
people relative to the exactions of the church, and their adjustment 
by a sort of public arbitration in October, 1643. But it is singular 
that neither in these records, nor in the earl’s very studied narrative, 
of the modes of discussion, the offenses, and the punishments, is 
one word to be found regarding the more important points actually 
at issue between himself and the peoj^le. The fact, however, is 
fully developed, as if by accident, in one of the chapters (xvi.) of 
this very desultory but sagacious performance. “ There comes this 
very instant an occasion to me to acquaint you with a special mat- 
ter, which, if by reason of these troublesome and dangerous times, 1 
cannot bring to passe my intents therein, you may "in your better 
leisure consider thereof, and make some use hereafter of my present 
labors, in the matter of a certain holding in this country, called the 
tenure of the straw;* whereby men thinke their dwellings are their 
own auntient inheritances, and that they may passe the same to any, 
and dispose thereof without license from the lord, but paying him a 
bare small rent like unto a fee-farme in England: wherein they are 
much deceived.” 

William the Conqueror, among his plans for the benefit of his 
English subjects, adopted that of inducing or compelling them to 
surrender their allodial lands, and receive them back to hold by 
feudal tenure. The Earl of Derby projected the surrender of a 
similar right, in order lo create tenures more profitable to himself — 
a simple lease for three lives, or twenty-one years. The measure 
was eutirely novel, although the attempt to prevent f alienation 
without license from the lord, for purposes of a less profitable ex- 
action, may be traced, together with the scenes of violence it pro- 
duced, through many passages in the ancient records, which would 
be inexplicable without this clew. 

The earl proceeded certainly with suflacient energy and considera- 
ble skill to the accomplishment of his object. In the very year of 

* In the transfer of real estates both parties came into the common law 
court, and the granter, in the face of the court, transferred his title to the pur- 
chaser by the delivery of a straw; which, being recorded, was his title. The 
same practice prevailed in the transfer of personal property. Sir Edward 
Coke, iv. 69, when speaking of the Isle of Man, says, “ upon the sale of a horse, 
or any contract for any other thing, they make the stipulation perfect per ira- 
ditionem stipulce ” (by the delivery of a straw). Perhaps a more feasible ety- 
mology of stipulation than the usual derivation from stipes (a stake or land- 
mark), or stips (a piece of money, or wages). 

t Among those instances in which “ the commands of the lord propx’ietor 
have (in the emphatic words of the commissioners of 1791, p. 67) been obtruded 
on the people as law's,” we find, in 1583, the prohibition to dispose of lands 
without license of the lord is prefaced by the broad admission that, “ contrary 
to good and laudable order, and diverse and sundry general restraints made, 
the inhabitants have, and daily do, notwithstanding the said restraints, buy, 
sell, give, grant, chop, and exchange their farms, lands, tenements, <&c., at 
their liberties and pleasures."" Alienation fines were first exacted in 1643. 
Eeport of Commissioners of 1791. App. A, No. 71, Rep. of Law Officers. 


APPENDIX TO INTEODUCTION. 


13 

his arrival, Dec., 1643, he appointed commissioners* * * § to compound 
for leases, consisting of some of his principal otBcers (members of 
council), who had themselves been prevailed on by adequate con- 
siderations to surrender their estates, and are by general tradition 
accused of having conspired to delude their simple countrymen 
into the persuasion, that having no title-deeds, their estates were 
insecure; that leases were title-deeds, and although nominallj’’ for 
limited terms, declared the lands to be descendibb to their eldest sons. 
It is remarkable that the names of Ewan and William Christian, two 
of the council, are alone excluded from this commission. 

We have already seen two of the name committed to prison. The 
following notices, which abundantly unfold the ground of 
the earl’s hostility to the name of Christian, relate to Ewan Chris- 
tian, the father of William Dhone, and one of the Deemsters ex- 
cluded from the commission. “ One presented me a petition against 
. Deemsterf Cl:\fistian, on the behalf of an infant who is conceived to 
have a right unto his Farme Rainsway (Ronaldsway), one of the 
principal holdings in this country, who by reason of his eminencie 
here, and that he holdeth much of the same tenure of the straw in 
other places, he is soe observed, that certainly as 1 temper the mat- 
ter with him in this, soe shall 1 prevail with others. — “ By poli- 
cies they (the Christians) are crept into the principal places of power, 
and they be seated round about the country, and in the heart of it; 
they are matched with the best families,” etc. 

“ The prayer of the petition || formerly mentioned was to this effect 
that there might be a fair tryal, and when the right was recovered, 
that 1 would graunt them a lease thereof — this being in the tenure of the 
straw.” — “Upon some conference with the petitioner, 1 find a 
motion heretofore was made by my commissioners, that the Deems- 
ter should give this fellow a summe of money. But he would part 
with none, neverthelesse now it may be he will, and 1 hope be so wise 
as to assure unto himself his holding, by compounding with me tor 
the lease of the same, to which, if they two agree, 1 shall grant it 
him on easy terms. For if he break the ice, 1 may haply catch some 
fish.’ ^ 

The issue of this piscatory project was but too successful. Ewan 
bent to the reign of terror, and gave up Ronaldsway to his son 
William, who accepted the lease, and named his own descendants 
for the lives. Still the objects attained were unsubstantial, as being 

* The governor-comptroller, receiver; and John Cannel, deemster. 

+ Deemster, evidently Anglicized, the person who deems the law ; a designa- 
tion anciently unknown among the natives, who continue to call this officer 
Brehon, identical with the name of those judges and laws so often mentioned 
in the Histories of Ireland. 

t Peck, 447. 

§ Ib. 448. 

II I have ascertained the date of this petition to be 1643. 

" 1 Covetousness is not attributed to the head of this family ; but the earl 
makes himself merry with his gallantry. Natural children, it seems, took the 
name of their father, and not of their mother, as elsewhere, and “ the deemster 
did not get so many for lust’s sake, as to make the name of Christian flourish.” 
Of him, or a successor of the same name, it is related, that he “ won Z500 at 
play from the Bishop of Sodor and Man, with which he purchased the manor 
of Ewanrigg in Cumberland, still possessed by that family.” 


14 


APPENDIX TO INTEODUCTION* * * § 


contrary to all law, written or oral; and the system was incomplete^, 
until sanctioned by the semblance of legislative confirmation. 

We have seen that the earl had in the island a considerable mili- 
tary force, and we know from other sources* that they lived in a 
great measure at free quarters. W e have his own testimony for 
stating, that he achieved his objects by imprisoning, until his 
prisoners ''promised to he good;'’ and successively filling their places 
with others, until they also conformed to his theory of public rirtue. 
And the reader will be prepared to hear, without surprise, that the 
same means enabled him, in 1645, to arrange a legislature f capable 
of yielding a forced assent to this noble system of submission and 
loving- kindness. 

This is perhaps the most convenient place for stating, that in the i 
subsequent surrender of the Island to the troops of the Parliament, 
the only stipulation made by the Islanders was, “ that they might 
enjoy their lands and liberties as they formerly had.'’ In what* 
manner this stipulation was performed, my notes do not enable me 
to state. The restoration of Charles 11., propitious in other respects, 
inflicted on the Isle of Man the revival of its feudal government; 
and the allair of the tenures continued to be a theme of perpetual 
contest and unavailing complaint, until finally adjusted in 1703, 
through the mediation of the excellent Bishop Wrlsoii in a legislative 
compromise, known by the name of the Act of Settlement, whereby 
the people obtained a full recognition of their ancient rights, on con- 
ditron of doubling the actual quit rents, and consenting to alienation 
fines, first exacted by the Earl James in 1643.j; 

In 1648, William Dhone was appointed Receiver General; and in 
the same year we find his elder brother, John (assistant Deemster to 
his father Ewan), committed to Peel Castle on one of these occasions, 
which strongly marks the character of the person and the times, and 
affords also a glimpse at the feeling of the people, and at the con- 
dition of the devoted family of Christian. The inquisitive will find 
it in a note ;§ other readers will pass on. 

The circumstances are familiarly known, to the reader of English 
history, of the march of the Earl of Derby, in 1651, with a corps 

* Evidence on the mock trial of William Dhone. 

t We shall see, by and by, a very simple method of packing a judicial and 
legislative body, by removing and replacing seven individuals by one and 
the same mandate. 

t Report of 1791, App. A. No. 71. 

§ A person named Charles Vaughan is brought to lodge an information, that 
being in England, he fell into company with a young man named Christian, 
who said he had lately left the Isle of Man, and was in search of a brother, 
who w’as clerk to a Parliament officer; that in answer to some questions, he 
said, “ The Earl did use the inhabitants of that Isle very hardly ; had estreated 
great fines from the inhabitants; had changed the ancient tenures, aud forced 
them to take leases. That he had taken away one hundred pounds a-year 
from his father, and had kept his uncle in prison four or five years. But if 
ever the earl came to England (he had used the inhabitants so hardly), that h^ 
was sure they would never suffer him to land in that island again.” An order 
is given to imprison John Christian (probably the reputed head of the family, 
his father being advanced in years) in Peel Castle, until he entered into bonds 
to be of good behavior, and not to depart the Isle without iicense.— (Insular 
Records.) The young man in question is said to have been the son of William. 
Christian of Knockrushen. 


APPENDIX TO lETTRODUCTIOl?'. 


15 

from the Isle ot Man for the service of the king; his joining the 
royal army on the eve of the battle of Worcester; his flight and 
imprisonment at Chester, after that signal defeat; and his trial and 
execution at Bolton in Lancashire, by the officers of the Parliament, 
on the 15th of October of that year. 

Immediately afterward, Colonel Duckenfield, who commanded at 
Chester on behalf of the Parliament, proceeded with an armament 
of ten ships, and a considerable military force, for the reduction of 
the Isle of Man. 

William Christian was condemned and executed in 1662-3, for 
acts connected with its surrender, twelve years before, which are 
still involved in obscurity; and it will be most acceptable to the 
general reader that we should pass over the intermediate period,* and 
leave the facts regarding this individual, all of them extraordinary, 
and some of peculiar interest, to be developed by the record of the 
trial, and documents derived from other sources. 

A mandate by Charles, eighth Earl of Derby, dated at Latham in 
September, 1662, after descanting on the heinous sin of rebellion, 
“ aggravated by its being instrumentalf in the death of the lord; 
and stating that he is himself concerned to revenge a father’s blood,” 
orders William Christian to be proceeded against forthwith, for all 
his illegal actions at, before, or after, the year 1651 (a pretty sweep- 
ing range). The indictment charges him with ” being the head of 
an insurrection against the Countess of Derby in 1651, assuming the 
power unto himself, and depriving her ladyship, his lordship, and 
heirs thereof.” 

A series of depositions appear on record from the 3d to the 13th of 
October, and a reference by the precious depositaries of justice of 
that day, to the twenty-four Keys,! ‘‘ Whether upon the examina- 
tion taken and read before, you find Mr. W. Christian, of llonalds- 
way, within compass of the statute of the year 1422,— that is, to re- 
ceive a sentence without quest, or to be tried in the ordinary course of 

* Some readers maj' desire an outline of this period. The lordship of the 
Island was given to Lord Fairfax, who deputed commissioners to regulate its 
affairs ; one of them (Chaloner) published an account of the island in 1656. He 
puts down William Christian as Receiver- General in 1653. We find his name, 
as Governor, from 16.56 to 1658 (Sacheverill, p. 101), in which year he was suc- 
ceeded by Chaloner himself. Among the anomalies of those times, it would 
seem that he had retained the office of Receiver while officiating as Governor ; 
and episcopacy having been abolished, and the receipts of the see added to 
those of the exchequer, he had large accounts to settle, for which Chaloner 
sequestered his estates in his absence, and imprisoned and held to bail his 
brother John, for aiding what he calls his escape ; his son George returned 
from England, by permission of Lord Fairfax, to settle his father’s accounts. 
Chaloner informs us, that the revenues of the suppressed see were not appro- 
pi'iated to the private use of Lord Fairfax, who, “ for the better encourage- 
ment and support of the ministers of the Gospel and for the promoting of 
learning, hath conferred hll this revenue upon the ministers, and also for 
maintaining free schools, i. e. at Castletown, Peel Douglass, and Ramsay.” 
Chaloner pays a liberal tribute to the talents of the clergy, and the learning 
and piety of the late bishops. 

t See the remark in Christian’s dying speech, that the late earl had been 
■executed eight days before the insurrection. 

t The court for criminal trials was composed of the governor and council 
(including the deemsters) and the keys, who also, with the lord, composed the 
three branches of the legislative body; and it was the practice in cases of 
doubt to refer points of customary law to the deemsters and keys. 


16 


APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. 


law.” This body, designated on the record ” so many of the Keys 
as were then present, ’ ’ were in number seventeen ; but not being yet 
sufficiently select to approve of sentence without trial, made their re* 
turn, to be tried by course of law. 

On the 261 h of November, it is recorded, that the Governor and 
Attorney- General having proceeded to the jail ” with a guard of 
soldiers, to require him (Christian) to the bar to receive his trial, he 
refused, and denied to come, and abide the same ” — (admirable 
courtesy to invite, instead of bringing him to the bar !) W hereupon 
the governor demanded the law of Deemster Norris, who then sat 
in judication. Deemster John Christian having not appeared, and 
Mr. Edward Christian,* his son, and assistant, having iuXso forborne 
to sit in this court, he the said Deemster Norris craved the advice 
and assistance of the twenty-four Keys, and the said Deemster and 
Keys deemed the law therein, to wit, that he is at the mercy of the 
lord for life and goods. 

It will be observed, that seven of the Keys were formerly absent, 
on what account we shall presently see. All this was very cleverly 
arranged by the following recorded order, 29th December — ‘ ‘ These 
of the twenty four Keys are removed of that Company, in refen'ence to 
my EonorcMe Lord’ s order in that behalf enumerating seven names, 
not of the seventeen before mentioned, and naming seven others 
who “are swornf in their places.” The judicature is further im- 
proved by transferring an eighth individual of the first seventeen to 
the council, and filling his place with another proper person. These 
facts have been related with some minuteness of detail for two rea- 
sons: 1st, Although nearly equaled by some of the subsequent pro- 
ceedings, they would not be credited on common authority; and 2d, 
I’hey render all comment unnecessary, and prepare the reader for 
any judgment, however extraordinary, to be expected from such a 
tribunal. 

Then come the proceedings of the 29th December — The Propo- 
sals, as they are named, to the Deemsters, j: and twenty-four Keys 
now assembled, “ to be answered in point of law,” 1st, Any male- 
factor, etc., being indicted, etc., and denying to abide the law of his 
country in that course, (notwithstanding any argument or plea he 
may offer for himself), and thereupon deemed to forfeit body and 
goods, &c., whether he may afterward obtain the same benefit, &c. 
&c. ; to which, on the same day, they answered in the negative. It 
was found practicable, on the 31st, to bring the prisoner to the bar, 
to hear his sentence of being “ shot to death, that thereupon his life 
may depart from his body;” which sentence was executed on the 2d 
of January, 1663. 

That he made “ an excellent speech ” at the place of execution, is 
recorded, where w^e should little expect to find it, in the Parochial 

* The grandson of Evan. It appears by the proceedings of the king in 
council, 1663, that “ he did, when the court refused to admit of the deceasecL 
William Christian's plea of the Act of Indemnity, make his protestation. 
against their illegal proceedings, and did withdraw himself, and came to Eng- 
land to solicit his majesty, and implore his justice.” 

+ The Commissioners of 1791 are in doubt regarding the time when, and the 
manner in which, the keys were first elected : this notable precedent had per- 
haps not fallen under their observation. 

X Hugh Cannel was now added as a second Deemster. 


APP^mDTX TO IXTKODUCTIOX. 17 

Register ; the accuracy of that which has been preserved as such in 
the family of a clerg 3 ’'man (and appears to have been printed on or 
before 1776*) rests chiefly on internal evidence; and on its accord- 
ance, in some material points, with facts suppressed or distorted in 
the records, but established in the proceedings of the Privy Council. 
It is therefore given without abbreviation, and the material points of 
evidence in the voluminous depositions on both trialsf are extracted 
for reference in a note, ij: 

* One of the copies in my possession is stated to be transcribed in that year 
from the printed speech, the other as stated in the text. 

t Both trials: the first is for the same purposes as the English grand jury, 
with this most especial difference, that evidence is admitted /or the prisoner, 
and it thus becomes what it is frequently called, the first trial ; the second, if 
the indictment be found, is in all respects like that by petty jury in England. 

X This testimony will of course be received with due suspicion, and confront- 
ed with the only defense known, that of his dying speech. It goes to establish, 
that Christian had placed himself at the head of an association, bound by a 
secret oath, to “ withstand the Lady of Derby in her designs, until she had 
yielded or condescended to their aggrievances;” among which grievances, 
during the Earl’s residence, we find incidentally noticed, “ the troop that was 
in the Isle and their free quarterage;” that he had represented her ladyship 
to have deceived him, by entering into negotiations with the parliament, con- 
trary to her promise to communicate with him in such a case ; that Christian 
and his associates declared that she was about to sell them for twopence or 
threepence a-piece ; that he told his associates that he had entered into cor- 
respondence with Major Fox and the Parliament, and received their authority 
to raise the country ; that in consequence of this insurrection her ladyship 
appointed commissioners to treat with others “ on the part of the country,'" 
and articles of agreement were concluded (see the speech) which nowhere now 
appear; that on the appearance of Duckenfield’s ships, standing for Ram- 
say Bay, one of the insurgents boarded them off Douglas, “ to give intelli* 
gence of the condition of the country;” the disposable troops marched under 
the governor, Sir Philip Musgrave, for Ramsay; that when the shipping 
had anchored, a deputation of three persons, viz. John Christian, Ewan 
Curphey, and William Standish, proceeded on board, to negotiate for 
the surrender of the Island (where William was does not appear). The 
destruction of the articles of agreement, and the silence of the records regard- 
ing the relative strength of the forces, leave us without the means of determin- 
ing the degree of merit or demerit to be ascribed to these negotiators, or the 
precise authority under which they acted ; but the grievances to he redressed, 
are cleared from every obscurity by the all-sufficient testimony of the terms 
demanded from the victors, ” that they might enjoy their lands and liberties 
as formerly they had; and that it was demanded whether they asked any 
more, but nothing else was demanded that this examinant heard of.” The 
taking of Loyal Fort near Ramsay (commanded by a Major Duckenfield, who 
was made prisoner), and of Peel Castle, appear on record; but nothing could 
be found regarding the sti'i'render of Castle Bushen, or of the Countess of 
Derhy''s subsequent imprisonment. Had the often repeated tale, of William 
Christian having ” treacherously seized upon the lady and her children, with 
the governors of both castles, in the middle of the night ”— (Rolfs History of 
the Isle of Man, published in 1773, p. 89) — rested on the slightest semblance of 
tnith, we should inevitably have found an attempt to prove it in the proceed- 
ings of this mock trial. In the absence of authentic details, the tradition may 
be adverted to, that her ladyship, on learning the proceedings at Ramsay, 
hastened to embark in a vessel she had prepared, but was intei-cepted before 
she could reach it. The same uncertainty exists with regard to any negotia- 
tions on her part, with the officers of the parliament, as affirmed by the in- 
surgents; the Earl’s first letter, after his capture and before his trial, says, 
“ Truly, as matters go, it will be best for you to make conditions for yourself, 
children, and friends, in the manner as we have proposed, or as you can 
further agree with Col. Duckenfield ; who, being so much of a gentleman born, 
will doubtless, for his own honor, deal fairly with you.” He seems also to 
have hoped at that time that it might influence his own fate : and the eloquent 
and affecting letter written immediately before his execution, repeats the sam^ 
admonitions to treat. Rolt, pp. 74 and 84. 


18 


APPEITDIX TO INTEODUCTION’. 


The last speech of William Christian, Esq. who was executed 
2d January, 1662-8: 

“ Gentlemen, and the rest ot you who have accompanied me this 
day to I he gate ot death, 1 know you expect I should say something 
at my departure; and indeed 1 am in some measure willing to satisfy 
you, having not had the least liberty, since my imprisonment, to 
acquaint any with the sadness ot my sufferings, which flesh and 
blood could not have endured, without the power and assistance of 
my most gracious and good God, into whose hands 1 do now com- 
mit my poor soul, not doubting but that 1 shall very quickly be in 
the arms ot his mercy. 

“ 1 am, as you now see, hurried hither by the power of a pretended 
court ofjusUee, the members whereof, or at least the greatest part ot 
them, are by no means qualified, but very ill befitting their new 
places. The reasons you may give yourselves. 

“ The cause for which 1 am brought hither, as the pi'ompted and 
threatened jury has delivered, is high treason against the Countess 
Dowager of Derby, for that 1 did, as they say, in the year fifty-one, 
raise a force against her for the suppressing and rooting out that 
family. How unjust the accusation is, very few of you tbat hear 
me this day but can witness; and that the then rising of the people, in 
which afterward 1 came to be engaged, did not at all, or in the least 
degree, intend the prejudice or ruin of that family; the chief whereof 
being, as you well remember, dead eight days, or thereabout, before that 
action happened. But the true cause ot that rising, as* the jury did 
twice bring in, was to present grievances to our honorable lady; 
which was done by me, and afterward approved by her ladyship, 
under the hand of her then secretary, M. Trevach, who is yet liv- 
ing, which agreement hath since, to myoion ruin and my poor family' s 
endless sorroxo, been forced from me. The Lord forgive them the in- 
justice of their dealings with me, and 1 wish from my heart it may 
not be laid to their charge another day ! 

“You now see me here a sacrifce ready to be offered upfm' that 
zohich teas the preserraiion of your lives and fortunes, which were then 
in hamrd, but then 1 stood between you and your (then in all appear- 
ance) utter ruin. 1 wish you still may, as hitherto, enjoy the sweet 
benefit and blessing of peace, though from that minute until now 1 
have still been prosecuted and persecuted, nor have 1 ever since 
found a place to rest myself in But rriay God be for ever blessed 
and praised, who hath given me so large* a measure ot patience! 

“ What services 1 have done for that noble family, by whose 
power 1 am now to take my latest breath, I dare appeal to them- 
selves, whether 1 have not deserved better things fiom some of them, 
than the sentence of my bodily destruction, and seizure of the poor 
estate my son ought to enjoy, being purchased and left him by his 
grandfather. It might have been much better had 1 not spent it in 
the service of my Honorable Lord of Derby and his family; these 
things 1 need not mention to you, tor that most of you are witnesses 
to it. 1 shall now beg your patience while 1 tell you here, in the 
presence of God, that 1 never in all my life acted any thing with in- 

* This fact, as might be expected, is not to be traced on the record of the 
trial. 


APPEJ^DIX TO IXTRODUCTIOX. 


19 


tention to prejudice my Sovereign Lord the King, nor the late Earl 
of Derby, nor the now earl; yet notwithstanding, being in England 
at the time of his sacred majesty’s happy restoration, 1 went to Lou- 
don, with many others, to have a sight bt my gracious king, whom 
God preserve, and whom until then I never had seen. But 1 was not 
long there when 1 was arrested upon an action of twenty thousand 
pounds, and clapped up in the Fleet; unto which action, 1 being a 
stranger, could give no bail, but was theie kept nearly a whole year, 
flow I sufiered God he knows; but at last having gained my liberty, 
1 thought good to advise with several gentlemen concerning his 
majesty’s gracious Act of Indemnity, that was then set forth, in 
which 1 thought myself concerned; unto which they told me, there 
w’as no doubt to be made but that all actions committed in the Isle 
of Man, relating in any kind to the war, were pardoned by the Act 
of Indemnity, and ail other places within his majesty’s dominions 
and countries. Whereupon, and having been forced to absent my- 
self from my poor wife and children near three years, being all that 
time under persecution, 1 did with great content and satisfaction re- 
turn into this island, hoping then to receive the comfort and sweet 
enjoyment of my friends and poor family. But alas! 1 have fallen 
into the snare of the fowler; but my God shall ever be praised — 
though he kill me, yet will 1 trust in him. 

“ 1 may justly say no man in this island knows better than myself 
the power the Lord Derby hath in this island, subordinate to his 
sacred majesty, of which 1 have given a full account in my declara- 
tion presented to my judges, ichicli 1 much fear icill never see light, ^ 
w7mh is no small trouble to me. 

“ It was his majesty’s most gracious Act of Indemnity gave me 
the confidence and assurance of my safety; on which, and an appeal 
Imade to his sacred majesty and Frivy Council, from the unjustness 
of the proceedings had against me, 1 did much rely, being his majes- 
ty’s subject here, and a denizen of England both by birth and fortune. 
And in regard 2 have disobeyed the power of my Lord of Derby's Act 
of Indemnity, tchich you now look upon, and his Majesty's Act cast out 
as being of no force, 1 have with greater violence been persecuted ; 
yet nevertheless 1 do declare, that no subject whatever can or ought 
to take upon them acts of indemnity but his sacred majesty only, 
with the confirmation of Parliament. 

“ It is very fit 1 should say something as to my education and re- 
ligion. 1 think 1 need not inform you, for you all know, 1 w\as 
brought up a son of the Church of England, which was at that time 
in her splendor and glory; and to my endless comfort 1 have ever 
since continued a faitliful member, witness several of my actions 
in the late times of liberty. And as for government, 1 never was 
against monarchy, w’hich now, to my soul’s great satisfaction, lhave 
lived to see is settled and established. 1 aih well assured that men 
of upright life and conversation may have the favorable countenance 
of our gracious king, under whose happy government, God of his 
infinite mercy long continue the6e his kingdoms and dominions. 
And now 1 do most heartily thank my good God that 1 have had so 
much liberty and time to disburden myself of several things that 


* This apprehension was but too correct. 


20 


APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. 


have lain heavy upon me all the time of my imprisonment, in which 
1 have not had time, or liberty, to speak or write any of my thoughls; 
and fiom my soul 1 wish all animosity may after my death he quite 
laid aside, and my death by none be called in question, for 1 do 
freely forgive all that have had any hand in my persecution; and 
may our good God preserve you all in peace and quiet the remainder 
of your days. 

“ Be ye all of you his majesty’s liege people, loyal and faithful to 
his sacred majesty; and, according to your oath of faith and fealty 
to my Honorable Lord of Derby, do you likewise, in all just and law- 
ful ways, observe his commands ; and know that you must one day 
give an account of all your deeds. And now the blessing of Al- 
mighty God be with you all, and preserve you from violent death, 
i and keep you in peace of conscience all your days! 

* ‘ 1 will now hasten, for my flesh is willing to be dissolved, and 
my spirit to be with God, who hath given me full assurance of his 
mercy and pardon for all my sins, of which his unspeakable good- 
ness and loving-kindness my poor soul is exceedingly satisfied.” 

Note.^ Here he fell upon his knees, and passed some time in 
prayer; then rising exceedingly cheerful, he addressed the soldiers 
appointed for his execution, saying — “ Now for you, who are ap- 
pointed by lot my executioners, 1 do freely forgive you.” Here- 
quested them and all present to pray for him; adding, “ There is but 
a thin veil betwixt me and death ; once more 1 request your prayers, 
for now 1 take my last farewell,” 

The soldiers wished to bind him to the spot on which he stood. 
He said, “ Trouble not yourselves or me; for 1 that dare face death 
in whatever form he comes, will not start at your fire and bullets; 
nor can the power you have deprive me of my courage.’’ At his 
desire a piece of white paper was given him, which with the utmost 
composure he pinned to his breast, to direct them where to aim; and 
after a short prayer addressed the soldiers thus — “ Hit this, and you 
do your own and my work. ’ ’ And presently after, stretching forth 
his arms, which was the signal he gave them, he was shot through 
the heart and fell, 

Edward Christian, the nephew, and George, the son, of the de- 
ceased, lost no time in appealing to his majesty in council against 
this judicial murder; and George was furnished with an order “ to 
pass and repass,” &c. “ and bring with him such records and per- 
sons as he should desire, to make out the trutli of his complaint.” 
Edward returned with him to the island for that purpose; for we 
find him, in April, 1663, compelled, in the true spirit of the day, to 
give bond “that he would at all times appear and answer, to such 
charges as might be preferred against him, and not depart the Isle 
loithout licensed^ George was prevented, by various contrivances, 
from serving the king’s order; but on presenting a second petition, 
the governor. Deemster, and members of council, w^ere brought up 
to London by a sergeant-at-arms; and these six persons, together 
with the Earl of Derby, being compelled to appear, a full hearing 
took place before the king in person, the chancelor, the lord chief 
justice, lord chief baron, and other members of council; judgment 


* This note is annexed to all the copies of the speech. 


APPENDIX TO INTEODUCTION. 


21 


extended on the 5tli of August, and that judgment was on the 
14:th of the same month ordered “to be printed in folio, in such 
manner as Acts of Parliament are usually printed, and his majesty’s 
arms prefixed.” 

This authentiG document designates the persons brought up as 

Members oj- the pretended Court of Justice;'' declares “that the 
general Act of Pardon and Amnesty did extend to the Isle of Man, 
and ought to have been taken notice of by the judges in that island, 
although it had not been pleaded; that \hQ conxi refused, to admit the 
deceased William Christian’s plea of the Act of Indemnity,” &c. 
“ Full restitution is ordered to be made to his heirs of all his estates, 
real and peisonal.” Three* other persons “ who were by the same’ 
court of justice imprisoned, and their estates seized and confiscated 
without any legal trial," are ordered, together with the Christians, 
“ to be restored to all their estates, real and personal, and to be fully 
repaired in all the charges and expenses which they have been at 
since tlieir first, imprisonment, as well in the prosecution of this busi- 
ness as in their journey hither, or in any other way thereunto relat- 
ing.” The mode of raising funds for the purposes of this restitution 
is equally peculiar and instructive; these “sums of money are 
ordered to be furnished by the Deemsters, members, and assistants 
of the said court of justice,” who are directed “ to raise and make 
due payment thereof to the parties.” 

“ xind to the end that the blood that has been unjustly spilt may 
in some sort be expiated,” &c., the Deemsters are ordered to be 
committed to the king’s bench to be proceeded against, &c. &c., 
and receive condign punishment. [It is believed that this part of the 
order w’as afterward relaxed or rendered nugatory.] The three 
members of council were released on giving security to appear, if re- 
quired, and to make the restitution ordered. “ And in regard that 
Edward Christian, being one of the deemsters or judges in the Isle 
of Man, did, when the Court refused to admit of the deceased W. 
Christian’s plea of the Act of Indemnity, make his protestation against 
their illegal proceedings, and did withdraw himself, and come to Eng- 
land to solicit his Majesty and irnplore his justice, it is ordered that the 
Earl of Derby do forthwith, by commission, &c., restore and appoint 
him as deemster, so to remain and continue, &c. [which order was 
disobeyed.] And lastly, that Henry Nowell, Deputy Governor, 
whose fault hath been the not complying %cith, and yielding due obedi- 
ence to, the order\ of his Majesty and this board sent unto the Island, 
[O most lame and impotent conclusion !] be permitted to return to 
the isle, and enforce the present order of the king in council.” 

Of the Earl of Derby no further mention occurs in this document. 
The sacrifices made by this noble family in support of the royal 
cause, drew a large share of indulgence over the exceptionable parts 
of their conduct; but the mortification necessarily consequent on this 
appeal, the incessant complaints of the people, and the diflBculty sub- 

* Ewan Curphey, Samuel RatclifiEe, and John Caesar, men of considerable 
landed property. 

t Tradition, in accordance with the dirge of William Dh6ne, says, that the 
order to stop proceedings and suspend the sentence arrived on the day preced- 
ing that of his execution. 


22 


APPEJs^^DIX TO IXTRODLX'TIOX. 


sequently experienced by tliem in obtaining access to a superior tri- 
bunal, receive a curious illustration in an order of the king in coun- 
cil, dated 20th August, 1670, on a petition of the Earl of Derby, 
“ that the clerk of the council in waiting receive no petition, appeal, 
or complaint, agaimt the lord or government of the Isle of Man, with- 
out having first good security from the complainant to answer costs, 
damages, and charges.” 

The historical notices of this kingdom * of Lilliput are curious and 
instructive with reference to other times and different circumstances, 
and they have seemed to require little comment or antiquarian re- 
mark; but to condense what may be collected with regard to Edw^ard 
Christian, the accomplished villain of Peveril; the insinuations of 
his accuser f conslitute in themselves an abundant defense. AVhen 
so little can be imputed by such an adversary, the character must 
indeed be invulnerable. Tradition ascribes to him nothing but what 
is amiable, patriotic, honorable, and good in all the relations of 
public and private life. He died, after an imprisonment of seven 
or eight years, the victim of incorrigible obstinacy, according to one, 
of ruthless tyranny, according to another vocabulary; but resem- 
bling the character of the novel in nothing but unconquerable courage. 

Treachery and ingratitude have been heaped on the merrrory of 
William Christian with sufficient profusion. Regarding the first 
of these crimes ; if all that has been affirmed or insinuated in the 
mock trial, rested on a less questionable basis, posterity would scarce- 
ly pronounce an unanimous verdict of moral and political guilt, 
against an association to subvert such a government as is described 
by its own author. The 'peculiar favors for wffiich he or his family 
were ungrateful, are not to be discovered on these proceedings; 
except, indeed, in the form of “ chastisement of the Almighty- 
blessings in disguise.” But if credit be given to the dying wmrds of 
William Christian, his efforts were strictly limited to a redress of 
grievances — a purpose always criminal in the eye of the oppressor. 

If he liad lived and died on a larger scene, his memory would 
probably have survived among the patriots and the heroes. In some 
of the manuscript narratives he is designated as a martyr for the 
rights and liberties of his countrymen; who add, in their homely 
manner, that he was condemned without trial, and murdered with- 
out remorse. 

_ We_ have pui-posely abstained from all attempt to enlist the pas- 
sions in favor of the sufferings of a people, or in detestation of op- 
pressions, which ought, perhaps, to be ascribed as much to the 
cnaracter of the times as to that of individuals. The naked facts 
of the case (unaided by the wild and plaintive notes in wiiicli the 
maidens of the isle were wont to bew^ail theX heart-rending death 
oj- fair-haired William ”) are sufficient of themselves to awaken the 
sympathy of every generous mind ; and it were a more worthy exer- 


* Earl James, although studious of kingcraft, assigns good reasons for hav- 
ing never pretended to assume that title, and among others, “ Nor doUi it 
please a king that any of his subjects should too much love that name, were it 
but to act in a play.”— Peck, 430 . 

+ Peck, passim. 

t The literal translation given to me by a young lady. 


APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. 


23 

cise of that despotic power over the imagination, so eminently pos- 
sessed by the Great Unknown, to embalm the remembrance of two 
such men in his immortal pages, than to load their memories with 
crimes, such as no human being ever committed. 


I AM enabled to add the translation of the lament over the fair- 
haired William Christian. It is originally composed in the Manx 
language, and consists of a series of imprecations of evil upon the 
enemies of Christian, and prophecies to the same purpose: — 

On thi Death and Murder of Receiver-General William ChHstian, of Ronalds- 
way, ivho was shot n&ar Hango Hill, January 2, 1662. 

1 . 

In so shifting a scene, who would confidence place 
In family power, youth, or in personal grace? 

No character’s proof against enmity foul; 

And thy fate, William Dhone, sickens our soul. 

2 . 

You are Derby’s receiver of patriot zeal, 

Replete with good sense, and reputed genteel, 

Your justice applauded by the young and the old ; 

And thy fate, &c. 

3. 

.4 kind, able patron both to church and to state— 

What roused their resentment but talents so great? 

No character’s proof against enmity foul ; 

And thy fate, &c. 

4. - 

Thy pardon, ’tis rumor’d, came over the main, 

’^or late, but conceal’d by a villain * in grain ; 

‘Twas fear forced the jury to a sentence so foul; 

And thy fate, &c. 

5. 

Triumphant stood Colcott, he wish’d for no more. 

When the pride of the Christians lay welt’ring in gore, 

To malice a victim, though steady and bold ; 

And thy fate, &e. 

6 . 

With adultery stain’d, and polluted with gore, 

\ He Ronaldsvray eyed, as Loghuecolly before, 

L ’Twas the land sought the culprit, as Ahab before ; 

And thy fate, &c. 


Proceed to the once famed abode of the Nuns, 

Call the Colcotts aloud, till you torture your lungs. 
Their short triumph’s ended, extinct is the whole ; 

And thy fate, &c. 


* A person named in the next stanza is said to have intercepted a pardou 
sent from England for William Christian, found, it is alleged, in the foot of an 
old woman’s stocking. The tradition is highly improbaWe. If Christian had 
been executed against the tenor of a pardon actually granted, it would not 
have failed to be charged as a high aggravation in the subsequent proceedings 
of the Privy Council. 


u 


APPENDIX TO IXTRODUCTIOiir. 


8 . 

For years could Robert lay crippled in bed, 

Nor knew the world peace while he held up his head, 
The neighborhood’s scourge in iniquity bold : 

And thy fate, <&:c. 

9 . 

Not one’s heard to grieve, seek the country all through' 
Nor lament for the name that Bemacan once knew; 

The poor rather load it with curses untold ; 

And thy fate, &c. 

' 10. 

Ballaclogh and the Criggans mark strongly their sin. 

Not a soul of the name’s there to welcome you in ; 

In the power of the strangers is centered the whole; 

And thy fate, &c. 

11 . 

The opulent Scarlett on which the sea flows. 

Is piecemeal disposed of to whom the Lord knows; 

It is here without bread or defense from the cold; ' 

And thy fate, &c. 

12 . 

They assert then in vain, that the law sought thy bloofi 
For all aiding the massacre never did good ; 

Like the rooted-up golding deprived of its gold. 

They languish’d, were blasted, grew wither’d and old^ 

13 . 

When the shoots of a tree so corrupted remain. 

Like the brier or thistle, they goad us with pain ; 

Deep, dark, undermining, they mimic the mole ; 

And thy fate, &c. 

14 . 

Round the infamous wretches who spilt Caesar’s blood. 
Dead specters and conscience in sad array stood. 

Not a man of the gang reach’d life’s utmost goal ; 

And thy fate, &c. 

15 . 

Perdition, too, seized them who caused thee to bleed. 

To decay fell their houses, their lands and their seed 
Disappear’d like the vapor when morn’s tinged with gold 

And thy fate, &c. 

16 . 

From grief all corroding, to hope I’ll repair, • 

That a branch of the Christians will soon grace the chair 
With royal instructions his foes to console ; 

And thy fate, &c. 

17 . 

With a book for my pillow, I dreamt as I lay. 

That a branch of the Christians would hold Ronaldsway; 
His conquests his topic with friends o’er a bowl, 

And thy fate, &c. 


18 . 

And now for a wish in concluding my song, — 

May the Almighty withhold me from doing what’s wrong 


APPEisDIX TO INTRODUCTION. 


25 


Protect every mortal from enmit}' foul, 

For thy fate, William Dhone, sickens our soul I* 


No. II. 

At the Court at Whitehall, 
the 5th August, 1663. 

George Christian, son and heir of William Christian, desceased, 
having exhibited his complaint to his Majesty in Council, that his 
father, being at a house of his in his Majesty’s Isle of Man, was 
imprisoned by certain persons of that island, pretending themselves 
to be a Court of Justice ; that he was by them accused of high treason, 
pretended to be committed against the Countess Dowager of Derby, 
in the year of 1651; and that they thereupon proceeded to judgment, 
and caused him to be put to death, notwithstanding the Act of 
General Pardon and Indemnity whereof he claimed the benefit: 
and his appeal to his Majesty, and humbly imploring his 
Majesty’s princely compassion towards the distressed widow and 
seven fatherless children of the deceased: His Majesty was 
graciously pleased, with the advice of his Council, to order that 
Thomas Norris and Hugh Cannell, the two judges, (by them in that 
island called Deemsters,) and Richard Stevenson, Robert Calcot, 
and Richard Tyldesley, three of the members of the pretended 
Court of Justice, and Henry Howell, deputy of the said island, 
should be forthwith sent for, and brought up by a sergeant-at-arms 
here, before his Majesty in Council, to appear and answer to such 
accusations as should be exhibited against them; which said six per- 
sons being accordingly brought hither the fifteenth day of July last, 
appointed for a full hearing of the whole business, the Earl of Derby 
then also summoned to appear, and the Lord Chief Justice of the 
King’s Bench, and the Lord Chief-Baron of bis Majesty’s Ex- 
chequer, with the King’s Council, learned in the laws, required to - 
be present, and all the parties called in with their counsel and wit- 
nesses, after full hearing of the matter on both sides, and the parties 
withdrawn, the said judges being desired to deliver their opinion, 
did, in presence of the King’s Council, learned in the laws, declare 
that the Act of General Pardon and Indemnity did, and ought to be 
understood to, extend to the Isle of Mann, as well as into any other 
of his Majesty's dominions and plantations beyond the Seas; and 
that, being a public General Act of Parliament, it ought to have 
been taken notice of by th6 judges in the Isle of Mann, although it 
had not been pleaded, and although there were no proclamations 
made thereof. His Majesty being therefore deeply sensible of this 
violation of his Act of General Pardon, whereof his Majesty hath 
always been very tender, and doth expect and require that all his 
subjects in all his dominions and plantations shall enjoy the full 
benefit and advantage of the same; and having this day taken the 
business into further consideration, and all parties called in and 
heard, did, by and with the advice of the Council, order, and it is 


* It may be recollected, that these verses are given through the medium of a 
meager translation, and are deprived of the aid of the music, otherwise we 
would certainly think the memory of William Dhone little honored by his na- 
tive bard. 


26 APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. 

hereby ordered, that all persons any way concerned in the seizure of 
the estate ot the said William Christian, deceased, or instrumental 
in the ejection of the widow and children out of their houses and 
fortune, do lake care that entire restitution is to be made of all the 
said estate, as well real or personal, as also all damages sustained, 
with full satisfaction for all profits by them received since the said 
estate hath been in their hands; and that, whereas the said William 
Christian, deceased, was one of the two lives remaining in an estate 
in Lancashire, that the detriment accruing by the untimely death of 
the said William Christian therein, or in liRe cases, shall be estimat- 
ed, and in like manner fully repaired. That in regard of the great 
trouble and charges the complainants have been at in pursuit of this 
business, ordered, that they do exhibit to this Board a true account, 
upon oath, of all expenses and damages by them sustained in the 
journies of themselves and witnesses, and of all other their charges 
in the following of this business. 

And whereas Ewan Curghey, Sammual Kadcliffe, and John Casar, 
were by the same Court of Justice imprisoned, and had their estates 
seized and confiscated, without any legal trial, it is ordered, that the 
said Ewan Curghey, Sammual Radclifte, and John Casar, be likewise 
reinstated to ail their estates, real and personal, and fully repaired 
in all the charges and expenses which they have been at since their 
first imprisonment, as well in the prosecution of this business, as in 
their journey thither, or any other way whatsoever thereunto relat- 
ing. The which satisfaction, expenses, and all the sums of money 
to be raised by virtue of this order, are to be furnished by the Deem- 
sters, Members, and Assistants of the said Court of Justice, who are 
hereby ordered to raise all such the said sums, and thereof to make 
due payment, and give full satisfaction unto the parties respectively 
hereby appointed to receive it. 

And to the end, the guilt of blood which hath been unjustly spilt, 
may in some sort be expiated, and his Majesty receive some kind of 
satisfaction for the untimely loss of a subject, it is ordered, that the 
said Thomas Norris and Hugh Cannell, who decreed this violent 
death, be committed, and remain prisoners in the King’s Bench, to 
be proceeded against in the ordinary course of justice, so to receive 
condign punishment according to the merit of so heinous a fact. 

That Richard Stevenson, Robert Calcott, and Richard Tyldesley, 
be discharged from further restraint, giving good security to appear 
at this Board whensoever summoned, and not depart this city until 
full satisfaction be given, and all orders of this Board whatsoever 
relating to this business fully executed in the island. And in re- 
gard, that upon the examination of this business, it doth appear that 
Edward Christian, being one of the Deemsters or Judges in the Isle 
of Mann, did, vjhen the Court refused to admit of the deceased 
William Christian’s plea of the Act of Indemnity, make his protesta- 
tion against their legal proceedina-s, and did withdraw himself, and 
come into England to solicit his Majest}^ and implore his justice, it 
is ordered, that the Earl ot Derby do forthwith, by commission, in 
due and accustomed manner, restore, constitute, and appoint the said 
Edward Christian, one of the Deemsters or Judges of the said island, 
so to remain and continue in the due execution ot the said place. 

And lastly, it is ordered that the said Henry Howell, Deputy-Gov- 


APPEIS'DIX TO INTRODUCTION. 


27 


ernor, whose charge hath been the not complying with, and yielding 
due obedience to, the orders ot his Majesty, and this Board sent into 
this island, giving good security to appear at this Board whensoever 
summoned, be forthwith discharged from all further restraint, and 
permitted to return into the island; and he is hereby strictly com- 
manded to employ the power and authority he hath, which by virtue 
ot his commission, he hath in that island, in performance of, and 
obedience to, all commands and orders of his Majesty and this Board 
in this whole business, or any way relating thereunto. 


(Signed by) 


Lord Chancellor. 
Lord Treasurer. 
Lord Privy Seal. 
Duke of Albemarle. 
Lord Chamberlain. 
Earl of Berkshire. 
Earl of St. Alban. 
Earl of Anglesey. 
Earl of Sandwich. 
Earl of Bath. 

Earl op Middleton. 


Earl of Carberry. 
Lord Bishop op London. 
Lord Wentworth. 

Lord Berkeley. 

Lord Ashley. 

Sir William Crompton, 
Mr Treasurer. 

Mr Vice Chamberlain. 
Mr Secretary Morice. 
Mr Secretary Bennett. 

Richard Browne, 

CleTk of the Council. 


At the Court at Whitehall ^ 
' ' August liih , 1663. 

■ Present 

The King’s Most Excellent Majesty. 


Lord Chancellor. 
Lord Treasurer. 
Lord Priyy Se^l. 
Duke of Buckingham. 
Duke op Albemarle. 
Lord Chamberlain. 
Earl op Berkshire. 
Earl of St. Alban. 
Earl op Sandwich. 
Earl op Anglesey. 
Earl op Bath. 


Earl of Middleton. 
Earl op Carberry. 

Lord Bishop of London. 
Lord Wentworth. 

Lord Berkeley. 

Lord Ashley. 

Sir William Crompton. 
Mr Treasurer. 

Mr Vice Chamberlain. 
Mr Secretary Morice. 
Mr Secretary Bennett. 


To the end the world may the better take notice of his Majesty’s 
royal intention to observl the Act of Indemnity and General Pardon 
inviolably for the publique good and satisfaction of his subjects, it 
was this day ordered, that a copy of the order of this Board of the 
5th inst., touching the illegal proceedings in the Isle of Mann against 
William Christian, and putting him to death contrary to the said 
Act of General Pardon, be sent unto his Majesty’s printer, who is 
commanded forthwith to print the same in the English letters, in 
folio, in such manner as Acts of Parliament are usually printed, 
and his Majesty’s Arms prefixed. 


Bichahd Browne. 


28 


PKEFATORY LETTER. 


PREFATORY LETTER 

FROM 

THE REV. DR. DRYASDUST OF YORK, 

TO 

CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, 

HeMing at Fairylodge, near Kennaqnhair, N.B. 

Very worthy and dear Sir, — To your last letter 1 might have 
answered, with the classic, “ Hand equidem invideo, miror magis.” 
For though my converse, from infancy, has been with things of an- 
tiquity, yet I love not ghosts or specters to be commentators thereon; 
and truly your account of the conversation you held with our great 
parent in the crypt, or most intimate recess of the publishers at Edin- 
burgh, had upon me much the effect of the apparition of Hector’s 
phantom on the hero of the ^neid— • 

“ Obstupui, steteruntque comae.” 

And as I said above, I repeat that I wondered at the Vision, without 
envying you the pleasure of seeing our great progenitor. But it 
seems that he is now permitted to shew himself to his family more 
freely than formerly; or that the old gentleman is turned somewhat 
garrulous in these latter days; or, in short, not to exhaust your pa- 
tience with conjectures of the cause, 1 also have seen the V'ision of 
the Author of Waverley. 1 do not mean to take any undue state 
on myself, when 1 observe, that this interview was marked with 
circumstances in some degree more formally complaisant than those 
which attended your meeting with him in our worthy publisher’s: 
for yours had the appearance of a fortuitous rencontre, whereas mine 
was preceded by the communication of a large roll of papers, con- 
taining a new history, called Peveril op the Peak. 

1 no sooner found that his manuscript consisted of a narrative, 
running to the length of perhaps three hundred and thirty pages in 
each volume, or thereabouts, than it instantly occurred to me from 
whom this boon came; and having set myself to peruse the written 
sheets, I began to entertain strong expCctafions that 1 might , perad- 
venture, next see the author himself. 

Again, it seems to me a marked circumstance, that, whereas an 
inner apartment of Mr. Constable’s shop was thought a place of suffi- 
cient solemnity for your audience, our venerable senior was pleased 
to afford mine in the recesses of my own lodgings, intra parietes, as 
it were, and without the chance of interruption. 1 must also re- 
mark, that the features, form, and dress of the Eidolon, as you well 
term the apparition of our parent, seemed to me more precisely dis- 
tinct than was vouchsafed to you on the former occasion. Of this 


PREFATOEY LETTER. 


29 


hereafter; but Heaven forbid 1 should glory or set up any claim of 
superiority over the other descendants of our common parents, from 
such decided marks of his preference— Zaws propria sordet. I am 
well satisfied that the honor was bestowed not on my person, but my 
cloth— that the preference did not elevate Jonas Dryasdust over 
Clutterbuck, but the Doctor of Divinity over the Captain. Cedant 
arma togm—^ maxim never to be forgotten at any time, but espe- 
cially to be remembered when the soldier is upon half -pay. 

But 1 bethink me that 1 am keeping you all this while in the 
porch, and wearying you with long inductions, when you would 
have me properare in mediam rein. As you will, it shall be done; 
for, as his Grace is wont to say of me wittily, “ Ko man tells a story 
so well as Dr. Dryasdust, when he has once got up to the starting- 
post.” Jocose hoc. But to continue. 

1 had skimmed the cream of my narrative which I had received 
about a week befoie, and that with no small cost and pain; for the 
hand of our parent is become so small and so crabbed, that I was 
obliged to use strong magnifiers. Feeling my eyes a little exhausted 
toward the close of the second volume, 1 leaned back in my easy- 
chair, and began to consider whether several of the objections whicfi 
have been particularly urged against our father and patron, might 
not be considered as applying, in an especial manner, to the papers 
1 have just perused. ” Here are figments enough,” said 1 to myself, 
“ to confuse the march of a whole history — anachronisms enough to 
overset all chronology ! The old gentleman hath broken all bounds 
— abut ‘—evasit — erupit. ’ ’ 

As these thoughts passed through my mind, 1 fell into a fit of 
musing, which is not uncommon with me after dinner, when I am 
altogether alone, or have no one with me but my curate. 1 was awake, 
however; for 1 remember seeing^ in the embers of the fire, a repret 
sentation of a miter, with the towers of a cathedral in the back- 
ground ; moreover, 1 recollect gazing for a certain time on the come- 
ly countenance of Dr. Whiterose, my uncle by the mother’s side — 
the same who is mentioned in The Heart of Midlothian — whose 
portrait, graceful in wig and canonicals, hangs above my mantel- 
piece. Further, 1 remember marking the flowers in the frame of 
carved oak, and casting my eye on the pistols which hang beneath, 
being the fire-arms with which in the eventful year 1746, my uncle 
meant to have espoused the cause of Prince Charles Edward; for, 
indeed, so little did he esteem personal safety, in comparison of 
steady high-church principle, that he waited but the news of the 
Adventurer’s reaching London to hasten to join his standard. 

Such a dose as 1 then enjoyed, I find compatible with indulging 
the best and deepest cogitations which at any time arise in my mind. 
1 chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, in a state betwixt sleeping 
and waking, which 1 consider as so highly favorable to philosophy, 
that 1 have no doubt some of its most distinguished systems have 
been composed under its influence. My servant is, therefore, in- 
structed to tread as if upon down— my door-hinges aie carefully 
oiled— and all appliances used to prevent me from being piemature- 
ly and harshly called back to the broad waking day of a laborious 
world. My custom, in this particular, is so well known, that the 
very schoolboys cross the alley on tiptoe, betwixt the hours of four 


PREFATORY LETTER. 


30 

and five. jMy cell is the very dwelling of Morpheus. There is in- 
deed a bawling knave of a broom-man, quern ego— But this is matter 
for the Quarter Sessions. 

As my Read sunk back upon the easy-chair in the philosophical 
mood which 1 have just described, and the eyes of my body began 
to close, in order, doubtless, that those of my understanding might 
be the more widely opened, 1 was startled by a knock at the door of 
a kind more authoritatively boisterous than is given at that hour by 
any visitor acquainted with my habits. 1 started up in my seat, 
and heard the step of my servant hurrying along the passage, fol- 
lowed by a very heavy and measured pace, which shook the long, 
oak-flooied gallery. in such a manner, as forcibly to arrest my atten- 
tion. “ A stranger, sir, just arrived from Edinburgh by the North 
Mail, desires to speak with your Reverence.” Such were the words 
with which Jacob threw the door to the wall; and the startled tone 
in which he pronounced them, although there was nothing particu- 
lar in the annunciation itself, prepared me for the approach of a 
visitor of uncommon dignity and importance. 

The Author of Waverley entered, a bulky and tall man, in a 
traveling great-coat, which covered a suit of snufl-brown, cut in imi- 
tation of that worn by the great Rambler. His flapped hat — for he 
disdained the modern frivolities -of a traveling- cap— was bound over 
his head with a large silk handkerchief, so as to protect his ears from 
cold at once, and from the babble of his pleasant companions in the 
public coach from which he had just alighted. There . was some- 
what of a sarcastic shrewdness and sense, which sat on the heavy 
penthouse of his shaggy gray eyebrow — his features were in other 
respects largely shaped, and rather heavy, than promising wit or 
genius; but he had a notable projection of the nose, similar to that 
line of the Latin poet : • 

■ “immodicum surgit pro cuspide rostrum.” 

A stout walking-stick stayed his hand — a double Barcelona protected 
his neck — his belly was something prominent, ” but that’s not 
mrrch his breeches were substantial thickset — and a pair of top- 
boots, which were slipped down to ease his sturdy calves, did not 
conceal his comfortable traveling stockings of lamb’s wool, wroirght, 
not on the loom, but on wires, and after the venerable ancient fash- 
ion, known in Scotland by the name of ridge-and-furrow. His age 
seemed to be considerably above fifty, but could not amount to 
threescore, which 1 observed with pleasure, trusting there may be a 
good deal of work had out of him yet; especially as a general hale- 
ness of appearance — the compass and strength of his voice — the 
stefidiness of his step— the rotundity of his calf — the depth of his 
hem, and the sonorous emphasis of his sueeze, were all signs of a 
constitution built for permanence. 

It struck me forcibly, as 1 gazed on this portly person, that he 
realized, in my imagination, the Stout Gentleman in Ho. II. who 
afforded such subject of varying speculation to our most amusing 
and elegant Utopian traveler. Master Geoffrey Crayon. Indeed, but 
for one little trait in the conduct of the said Stout Gentleman — I 
mean the gallantry toward his landlady, a thing which would greatly 


PREFATORY LETTER. 


31 


derogate from our senior’s character — 1 should be disposed to con- 
clude that Master Crayon had^ on that memorable occasion, actually 
passed his time in the vicinity of the Author of Waverley. But our 
worthy patriarch, be it spoken to his praise, far from cultivating the 
society of the fair sex, seems, in avoiding the company of woman- 
kind, rather to imitate the humor of our friend and relation, Master 
Jonathan Oldbuck, as 1 was led to conjecture, from a circumstance 
which occurred immediately after his entrance. 

Having acknowledged his presence Muth fitting thanks and grat* 
ulations, 1 proposed to my venerated visitor, as a refreshment best 
suited to the hour of the day, to summon my cousin and house- 
keeper, Miss Catharine Whiterose, with the tea equipage; but he re- 
jected my proposal with disdain, worthy of the Laird of Monkbarns. 
“ No scan dal -broth,” he exclaimed; “no unidea’d woman’s chat- 
ter for me. Fill the frothed tankard — slice the fatted rump — 1 desire 
no society but yours, and no refreshment but what the cask and the 
gridiron can supply. ” 

The beefsteak, and toast and tankard, were speedily got ready, 
and, whether an apparition or a bodily presentation, my visitor dis- 
played dexterity as a trencherman, which might have attracted the 
envy of a hungry hunter, after a fox-chase of forty miles. Neither 
did he fail to make some deep and solemn appeals, not only to the 
tankard aforesaid, but to two decanters of London particular Madeira 
and old Port; the first of which 1 had extracted from its ripening 
place of depositation, within reach of the genial warmth of the oven; 
the other, from a deep crypt in mine own ancient cellar, which 
whilom may have held the vintages of the victors of the world, the 
arch being composed of Roman brick. I could not help admiring 
and congratulating the old gentleman upon the vigorous appetite 
which he displayed for the genial cheer of old England. “ Sir,’* 
was his reply, “ 1 must eat as an Englishman, to qualify myself for 
taking my place at one of the most select companies of right English 
spirits, which ever girdled in, and hewed asunder, a mountainous 
sirloin, and a generous plum-pudding.” 

1 inquired, but with all deference and modesty, whither he was 
bound, and to what distinguished Society he applied a description so 
general. 1 shall proceed, in humble imitation of your example, to 
give the subsequent dialogue in a dramatic form, unless when de- 
scription becomes necessary. 

Author of WaverUy. To whom should 1 apply such a description, 
save to the only Society to whom it can be thoroughly applicable — 
those unerring judges of old books and old wine — the Roxbuighe 
Club of London? Have you not heard that 1 have been chosen a 
member of that Society of select Bibliomaniacs? * 

Dryasdust. {Rummaging in his pocJcet.') I did hear something of 
it from Captain Clutterbuck, who wrote to me— ay, here is his letter 
— that such a report was current among the Scottish antiquaries, 

* The author has pride in recording, that he had the honor to be elected a 
member of this distinguished association, merely as the Author of Waverley, 
without any other designation ; and it was an additional inducement to throw 
off the mask of an anonymous author, that it gives him a right to occupy the 
vacant chair at that festive board. 


PREFATORY LETTER. 


32 

who were much alarmed lest you should be seduced into the heresy 
of preferring English beef to seven- year-old black-faced mutton, 
Maraschino to whisky, and turtle-soup to cock-a-leekie ; in which 
case, they must needs renounce you as a lost man. “ But,” adds 
our friend, looking at the letter — his hand is rather of a military de- 
scription, better used to handle the sword than the pen — “ Our 
friend is so much upon the SHUN ” — WiQshun, 1 think it is-— “ that 
) it must be no light temptation which will withdraw him from his 
j incognito.” 

Author. No light temptation, unquestionably; but this is a pow- 
; erful one, to hob-or-nob with the lords of the literary treasures of 
' Althorpe and Hodnet, in Madeira negus, brewed by the classical 
Hibdin — to share those profound debates which stamp accurately on 
each “ small volume, dark with tarnish’d gold,” its collar, not of S. 
S. but of R. R. — to toast the immortal memory of Caxton, Yaldarar, 
Pynson, and the other fathers of that great art, which has made all, 
and each of us, what we are. These, my dear son, are temptations, 
to which you see me now in the act of resigning that quiet chimney- 
corner of life, in which, unknowing and unknown — save by means 
of the hopeful family to which 1 have given birth— I proposed to 
wear out the end of life’s evening gray. 

So saying, our venerable friend took another emphatic touch of 
the tankard, as if the very expression had suggested that specific 
remedy against the evils of life, recommended in the celebrated re- 
sponse of Johnson’s anchorite — 

“ Come, my lad, and drink some beer.” 

When he had placed on the table the silver tankard, and fetched a 
deep sigh to collect the respiration which the long draught had in- 
terrupted, 1 could not help echoing it, in a note so pathetically com- 
passionate, that he fixed his eyes on me with surprise. ” How is 
this?” said he, somewhat angrily; “ do you, the creature of my will, 
grudge me my preferment? Have 1 dedicated to you, and your fel- 
lows," the best hours of my life tor these seven years past; and do 
you presume to grumble or repine, because, in those which are to 
come, 1 seek for some enjoyments of life in society so congenial to 
my pursuits?” I humbled myself before the offended Senior, and 
professed my innocence in all that could possibly give him displeas- 
ure. He seemed partly appeased, but still bent on me an eye of sus- 
picion, while he questioned me in the words of old Norton, in the 
ballad of the ” Rising in the North Country.” 

Author. What wouldst thou have, Francis Norton? 

Thou art my youngest son and lieir ; 

Something lies brooding at thy heart— 

What e’er it be, to me declare. 

Dryasdust. Craving, then, your paternal forgiveness for my pre- 
sumption, 1 only sighed at the possibility of your venturing yourself 
amongst a body of critics, to whom, in the capacity of skillful anti- 
quaries, the investigation of truth is an especial duty, and who may 
therefore visit with the more severe censure those aberrations which 
it is so often your pleasure to make from the path of true history. 

Author. 1 understand you. You mean to say these learned per- 


PREFATORY LETTER. 33 

sons will have but little toleration for a romance, or a ficlitious nar- 
rative, founded upon history? 

Dryasdnst. Why, sir, 1 do rather apprehend, that their respect 
for the foundation will be such, that they may be apt to quarrel with 
the inconsistent nature of the superstructure; just as eveiy classical 
traveler pours forth expressions of sorrow and indignation, when, in 
traveling through Greece, he chances to see a Turkish kiosk rising 
on the ruins of an ancient temple. 

Author, But since we cannot rebuild the temple, a kiosk may be 
a pretty thing, may it not? Not quite correct in architecture, 
strictly and classically criticised; but presenting something uncom- 
mon to the eye, and something fantastic to the imagination, on 
which the spectator gazes with pleasure of the same description 
which arises from the perusal of an Eastern tale. 

Dryasdust. 1 am unable to dispute with you in metaphor, sir; 
but I must say, in discharge of my conscience, that you stand much 
censurea for adulterating the pure sources of historical knowledge. 
You approach them, men say, like the drunken yeoman, who, once 
upon a time, polluted the crystal spring which supplied the thirst of 
his family, with a score of sugar loaves and a hogshead of rum; and 
thereby conveited a simple and wholesome beverage into a stupefy- 
ing, brutifying, and intoxicating fluid; sweeter, indeed, to the taste 
than the natural lymph, but, for that yery reason, more seductively 
dangerous. 

Author. I allow your metaphor, doctor; but yet, though good 
punch cannot supply the want of spring water, it is, when modestly 
used, no malum in se ; and 1 should have thought it a shabby thing 
of the parson of the parish, had he helped to drink out the well on 
Saturday night, and preached against the honest hospitable yeoman 
on Sunday morning. 1 should have answered him, that the very 
flavor of the liquor should have put him at once upon his guard; 
and that, if he had taken a drop overmuch, he ought to blame his 
own imprudence more than the hospitality of his entertainer. 

Dryasdust. 1 profess 1 do not see exactly how this applies. 

Author. No; you are one of those numerous disputants who will 
never follow their metaphors a step further than it goes their own 
way. 1 will explain. A poor fellow, like myself, weary with ran- 
sacking his own barren and bounded imagination, looks out for some 
general subjecf in the huge and boundless fields of history, which 
holds forth examples of every kind — lights on some personage, or 
some combination of circumstances, or some striking traits of man- 
ners, which he thinks may be advantageously used as the basis of a 
fictitious narrative — bedizens it with such coloring as his skill sug- 
gests — ornaments it with such romantic circumstances as may 
heighten the general effect — invests it with such shades of charac- 
ter as will best contrast it with each other— and thinks, perhaps, he 
has done some service to the public, if he can present to them a 
lively fictitious picture, for which the original anecdote or circum- 
stance which he made free to press into his service, only furnished a 
slight sketch. Now 1 cannot perceive any harm in this. The stores 
of history are accessible to every one; and are no more exhausted or 
impoverished by the hints thus borrowed from them, lhan the fount- 


34 


PREFATORY LETTER. 


ain is drained by the water which we subtract for domestic pur- 
poses. And in reply to the sober charge of falsehood, against a nar- 
rative announced positively to be fictitious, one can only answer, by 
Prior’s exclamation, * 

“ Odzooks, must one swear to the truth of a song?” 

Dryasdust. Nay; but 1 fear me that you are here eluding the 
charge. Men do not seriously accuse 5 ^ou of misrepresenting history; 
although 1 assure you 1 have seen some grave treatises, in which it 
was thought necessary to contradict your assertions. 

Author. That certainly was to point a discharge of artillery 
against a wreath of morning mist. 

Dr':yasdust. But besides, and especially, it is said that you are in 
danger of causing histoiy to be neglected — readers being contented 
with such frothy and superficial knowledge as they acquire from 
your works, to the effect of inducing them to neglect the severer 
and more accurate sources of information. 

Author. I deny the consequence. On the contrary, 1 rather hope 
that I have turned the attention of the public on various points, 
'which have received elucidation from writers of more learning and 
research, in consequence of my novels having attached some interest 
to them. 1 might give instances, but 1 hate vanity — 1 hate vanity. 
The history of the divining-rod is well known— it is a slight valueless 
twig in itself, but indicates, by its motion, where veins of precious 
metal are concealed below the earth, which afterward enrich the ad- 
venturers by whom they are laboriously and carefully wrought. 1 
claim nc more merit for my historical hints ; but this is something. 

Dryasdust. We severer antiquaries, sir, may grant that this is 
true ; to wit, that your works may occasionally have put men of solid 
judgment upon researches which they would not perliapshave other- 
wise thought of undertaking. But this will leave you still account- 
able for misleading the young, the indolent, and the giddy, by 
thrusting into their hands works, which, while they have so much the 
appearance of conveying information, as may prove perhaps a salve 
to their consciences for employing their leisure in the perusal, yet 
leave their giddy brains contented with the crude, uncertain, and 
often false statements which your novels abound with. 

Author. It would be very unbecoming in me, reverend sir, to 
accuse a gentleman of your cloth of cant ; but pray, is there not 
something like it in the pathos with which you enforce these 
dangers? 1 aver, on the contrary, that by introducing Ore busy and 
the youthful to “truths severe in fairy fiction dress’d,”* 1 am 
doing a real service to the more ingenious and the more apt among: 
them; for the love of knowledge wants but a beginning — the least 
spark will give fire when the train is properly prepared; and having 
been interested in fictitious adventures, ascribed to a historical period 

* The doctor has denied the author’s title to shelter himself under this quo- 
tation; but the author continues to think himself entitled to all the shelter, 
which, threadbare as it is, it may yet be able to afford .him. The trxith severe 
applies not to the narrative itself, but to the moral it conveys, in which the 
author has not been thought deficient. The “ fairy fiction ” is the conduct of 
the story which the tale is invented to elucidate. 


PREFATORY LETTER, 


35 

and characters, the reader begins next to be anxious to leain what 
the facts really weie, and how far the novelist has justly lepresented 
them.^ ' 

But even where the mind of the more careless reader remains sat- 
isfied with the light perusal he has afforded to a tale of fiction, he 
will still lay do tvn the book with a degree of knowledge, not perhaps 
of the most accurate kind, but such as he might not otherwise liave 
acquired. Nor is this limited to minds of a low and incurious de- 
scription; but, on the contrary, comprehends many persons other- 
wise of high talents, who, nevertheless, either from lack of time, or 
of perseverance, are willing to sit down contented with the slight 
information which is acquired in such a manner. The great Duke 
of Marlborough, for example, having quoted, in conversation, some 
fact of English history rather inaccurately, was requested to name 
his authority. “Shakespeare’s Historical Plays,” answered the 
conqueror of Blenheim; “ the only English history 1 ever read in 
my life.” And a hasty recollection will convince any of us how 
much better we are acquainted with those parts of English history 
which that immortal bard has dramatized, than with any other por- 
tion of British story. 

JDi'yasdust. And you, worthy sir, are ambitious to render a simi- 
lar service to posterity? 

Author. May the saints forefend 1 should be guilty of such un- 
founded vanity ! 1 only shew what has been done when there were 
giants in the land. We pigmies of the present day may at least, 
however, do something; and it is well to keep a pattern before our 
eyes, though that pattern be inimitable. 

Dryasdust. Well, sir, with me you must have your own coui’se; 
and for reasons well known to you, it is impossible for me to reply 
to you in argument. But 1 doubt if all you have said will reconcile 
the public to the anachronisms of your present volumes. Here you 
have a Countess of Derby fetched out of her cold grave, and saddled 
with a set of adventures dated twenty years after her death, besides 
beinff given up as a Catholicj when she was in fact a zealous 
Huguenot. 

Author. She may sue me for damages, as in the case Dido mrsus 
Virgil. 

Dryasdust. A worse fault is, that your manners are even more 
incorrect than usual. Your Puritan is faintly traced, in comparison 
to your Cameronian. ^ 

Author. I agree to the charge; but although 1 still consider 
hypocrisy and enthusiasm as fit food for lidicule and satire, yet 1 am 
sensible of the difiiculty of holding fanaticism up to laughter or 
abhorrence, without using coloring which may give offense to the 
sinceiely worthy and religious. Many things are lawful which we 
are taught are not convenient; and there are many tones of feeling 
which are too respectable to be insulted, though we do not altogether 
sympathize with them. 

Dryasdust. Not to mention, my worthy sir, that perhaps you 
may think the subject exhausted. 

Author. The devil lake the men of this generation for putting 
the worst construction on their neighbor’s conduct! 

So saying, and flinging a testy sort of adieu toward me with his 


36 


PIIEFATORY LETTER. 


hand, he opened the door, and ran hastily down-stairs. 1 started on 
my feet, and rang for my servant, who instantly came. 1 demanded 
what had become of the stranger— he denied that any such had been 
admitted — 1 pointed to the empty decanters, and he — he — he had the 
assurance to intimate that such vacancies were sometimes made 
when 1 had no better company than my own. 1 do not know what 
to make of this doubtful matter, but will certainly imitate your ex- 
ample, in placing this dialogue, with my present letter, at the head 
of Peveril op the Peak. 1 am, 

Dear Sir, 

Very much your faithful and 
obedient servant, 

Jonas Dryasdust. 


Michaelmas day, 18S2, York. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK 


CHAPTER 1. 

When civil dudgeon first gi-ew high, 

And men fell out, they knew not why; 

When foul words, jealousies, and fears, 

Set folks together by the eai*s— 

Butler, 

William, the Conqueror of England, was, or supposed himself 
to be, the father of a certain William Peveril, who attended him to 
the battle of Hastings, and there distinguished himself. The liberal- 
minded monarch, who assumed in his^ charters the veritable title of 
Gulielmus Bastardus, was not likely to let his son’s illegitimacy be 
any bar to the course of his royal favor, when the laws of England 
were issued from the mouth of the Norman victor, and the lands of 
the Saxons were at his unlimited disposal. William Peveril obtained 
a liberal grant of property and lordships in Derbyshire, and became 
the erector of that Gothic fortress, which, hanging over the mouth 
of the Devil’s Cavern, so well known to tourists, gives the name of 
Castleton to the adjacent village. 

From this feudal baron, who chose his nest upon the principles 
on which an eagle selects his eyrie, and built it in such a fashion as 
if he had intended it, as an Irishman said of the Martello towers, for 
the sole purpose of puzzling posterity, there was, or conceived them- 
selves to be, descended (for their pedigree was rather hypothetical) 
an opulent family of knightly rank, in the same county of Derby. 
The great fief of Castleton, with its adjacent wastes and forests, and 
all the wonders which they contain, had been forfeited, in King John’s 
stormy days, by one William Peveril, and had been granted anew 
to the Lord Ferrers of that day. Yet this William’s descendants, 
though no longer possessed of what they alleged to have been their 
original property, were long distinguished by the proud title of 
Peverils of the Peak, which served to mark their high descent, and 
lofty pretensions. 

In Charles the Second’s time, the representative of this ancient 
family was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, a man who had many of the 
ordinary attributes of an old-fashioned country gentleman, and very 
few individual traits to distinguish him from the general portrait of 
that worthy class of mankind. He was proud of small advantages, 
angry at small disappointments, incapable of forming any resolution 
or opinion abstracted from his own prejudices— he was proud of his 
birth, lavish in his housekeeping, convivial with those kindred and 
acquaintances who would allow his superiority in rank — conten- 
' ( 37 ) 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


38 

lious and quarrelsome with all that crossed his pretensions— -kind to 
the poor, except when they plundered his game — a royalist in his 
political opinions, and one who detested alike a Kouudhead, a 
poacher, and a Presbjderian. In religion Sir Geoffrey was^ a high- 
•churchman, of so exalted a strain that many thought he still nour- 
ished in private the Roman Catholic tenets, which his family had 
only renounced in his father’s time, and that he had a dispensation 
for conforming in outward observances to the Protestanc faith. 
There was at least such a scandal amongst the Puritans, and the in- 
fluence which Sir Geoffrey Peveril certainly appeared to possess 
■amongst the Catholic gentlemen of Derb3’'shire and Cheshire, seemed 
to give countenance to the rumor. 

Such was Sir Geoffrey, who might have passed to his grave with- 
out further distinction than a brass-plate in the chancel, had he not 
lived in times which forced the most inactive spirits into exertion, as 
a tempest influences the sluggish waters of the deadest mere. When 
the civil wars broke out, Peveril of the Peak, proud from pedigree, 
and brave by constitution, raised a regiment for the king, and 
showed upon several occasions more capacity for command than 
men had heretofore given him credit for. 

Even in the midst of the civil turmoil, he fell in love with, and 
married, a beautiful and amiable young lady of the noble house of 
Stanley; and from that time had the more merit in his loyalty, as it 
divorced him from her society, unless at very brief intervals, when 
his duty permitted an occasional visit to his home. Scorning to be 
nllured from his military duty by domestic inducements, Peveril of 
the Peak fought on for several rough years of civil war, and per- 
formed his part with sufficient gallantry, until his regiment was sur- 
prised and cut to pieces by Poyntz, Cromwell’s enterprising and suc- 
oessful general of cavalry. The defeated Cavalier escaped from the 
field of battle, and, like a true descendant of William the Conqueror, 
disdaining submission, threw himself into his own castellated man- 
sion, which was attacked and defended in a siege of that irregular 
kind which caused the destruction of so many baronial residences 
during the course of tnose unhappy wars. Martindale Castle, after 
having suffered severely from the cannon which Cromwell himself 
brought against it, was at length surrendered when in the last ex- 
tremity. Sir Geoffrey himself became a prisoner, and while his lib- 
erty was only restored upon a promise of remaining a peaceful sub- 
ject to the commonwealth in future, his former delinquencies, as 
they were termed by the ruling party, were severely punished by 
hue and sequestration. 

But neither his forced promise, nor the fear of further unpleasant 
consequences to his person or property, could prevent Peveril of the 
Peak from joining the gallant Earl of Derby the night before the 
fatal engagement in Wiggan-lane, where the Earl’s forces were dis- 
persed. Sir Geoffrey, having had his share in that action, escaped 
with the relics of the Royalists after the defeat, to join Charles II. 
He witnessed also the final defeat of Worcester, where he was a sec- 
ond time made prisoner; and as, in the opinion of Cromwell and the 
language of the times, he was regarded as an obstinate malignant, 
lie was in great danger of having shared with the Earl of Dei’by his 
execution at Bolton-le-Moor, having partaken with him the dangers 


PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


39 

of two actions. But Sir Geoffrey’s life was preserved by the interest 
of a friend, who possessed influence in the councils of Oliver. Thia 
was a Mr. Bridgenorth, a gentleman of middling quality, whose 
father had been successful in some commercial adventure during the 
peaceful reign of James 1. ; and who had bequeathed his son a con- 
siderable sum of money, in addition to the moderate patrimony 
which he inherited from his father. 

The substantial, chough small-sized brick building of Moultrassie 
Hall, was but two miles distant from Martindale Castle, and the 
young Bridgenorth attended the same school with the heir of the- 
Peverils. A sort of companionship, if not intimacy, took place be- 
twixt them, which continued during their youthful sports— the 
rather that Bridgenorth, though he did not at heart admit. Sir Geof- 
frey’s claims of superiority to the extent which the other’s vanity 
would have exacted, paid "deference in a reasonable degree to the 
representative of a family so much more ancient and important than, 
his own, without conceiving that he in any respect degraded himself 
by doing so. 

Mr. Bridgenorth did not, however, carry his complaisance so far 
as to embrace Sir Geoffrey’s side during the Civil War. On the 
contrary, as an active Justice of the Peace, he rendered much assist- 
ance in arraying the militia in the cause of the parliament, and for 
some time held a military commission in that service. This was- 
partly owing to his religious principles, for he was a zealous Presby- 
terian, partly to his political ideas which, without being absolutely 
democratical, favored the popular side of the great national question. 
Besides, he was a moneyed man, and to a certain extent had a 
shrewd eye to his worldly interest. He understood how to improve 
the opportunities w'hich civil war afforded, of advancing his fortune, 
by a dexterous use of his capital; and he was not at a loss to per- 
ceive that these were likely to be obtained in joining the parliament; 
while the king’s cause, as it was managed, held out nothing to the 
wealthy but a course of exaction and compulsory loans. For these 
reasons, Bridgenorth became a decided Roundhead, and all friendly 
communication bettvixt his neighbor and him was abruptlji^ broken 
asunder. This was done with the less acrimony, that, during the 
Civil War, Sir Geoffrey was almost constantly in the field, following" 
the vacillating and unhappy fortunes of his master; w’^hile Major 
Bridgenorth, who soon renounced active military service, resided 
chiefly in London, and only occasionally visited the Hall. 

Upon these visits, it was with great pleasure he received the intel- 
ligence, that Lady Peveril had shown much kindness to Mrs. 
Bridgenorth and had actually given her and her family shelter in 
Martindale Castle, when Moultrassie Hall was threatened with 
pillage by a body of Prince Rupert’s ill-disciplined cavaliers. This 
acquaintance had been matured by frequent walks together, w^hich 
the vicinity of their places ot residence suffered the Lady Peveril to 
have wilh Mrs, Bridgenorth, who deemed herself much honored in 
being thus admitted into the society of so distinguished a lady. 
Major Bridgenorth heard of this growing intimacy with great pleas- 
ure, and he determined to repay the obligation, as far as he could 
without much hurt to himself, by interfering, with all his influence,, 
in behalf of her unfortunate husband. It was chiefly owing to 


40 


PEYERIL OE THE PEAK. 


Major Bridgenoi til’s mediation, that Sir Geoffrey’s life was saved 
after the battle of Worcester. He obtained him permission to com- 
pound for his estate on easier terms than many who had been less 
obstinate in malignancy; and, finally, when, in order to raise the 
money to the composition, the knight was obliged to sell a consider- 
able portion of his patrimony. Major Bridgenorth became the pur- 
chaser, and that at a larger price than had been paid to any Cavalier 
under such circumstances, by a member of the Committee for 
Sequestrations. It is true, the prudent Committeeman did not, by 
any means, lose sight of his own interest in the transaction, for the 
price was, after all, very moderate, and the properly lay adjacent to 
Moultrassie Hall, the value of which was at least trebled by the 
acquisition. But then it was also true, that the unfortunate owner 
must have submitted to much worse conditions, had the Committee- 
man used, as others did, the full advantages which his situation gave 
him ; and Bridgenorth took credit to himself, and received it from 
others, for having, on this occasion, fairly sacrificed his interest to 
his liberality. 

Sir Geoffrey Peveril was of the same opinion, and the rather that 
Mr. Bridgenorth seemed to bear his exaltation with great modera- 
tion, and was disposed to show him personally the same deference 
in his present sunshine of prosperity, which he had exhibited for- 
merly in their early acquaintance. It is but justice to Major 
Bridgenorth to observe, that in this conduct he paid respect as much 
to the misfortunes as to the pretensions of his far-descended neigh- 
bor, and that, with the frank generosity of a blunt Englishman, he 
conceded points of ceremony, about which he himself was indiffer- 
ent, merely because he saw that his doing so gave pleasure to Sir 
Geoffrey. 

Peveril of the Peak did justice to his neighbor’s delicacy, in con- 
sideration of which he forgot many things. He forgot that Major 
Bridgenorth was already in possession of a fair third of his estate, 
and had various pecuniary claims affecting the remainder, to the ex- 
tent of one-third more. He endeavored even to forget, what it was 
still more difficult not to remember, the altered situation in which 
they and their mansions now stood to each other. 

Before the Civil War, the superb battlements and turrets of Mar- 
tindale Castle looked down on the red brick-built Hall, as it stole out 
from the green plantations, just as an oak in Martindale Chase 
would have looked beside one of the stunted and formal j'Oung 
beech-trees with which Bridgenorth had graced his avenue; but 
after the siege wdiich we have commemorated, the enlarged and aug- 
mented Hall was as much predominant in the landscape over the 
shattered and blackened ruins of the Castle, of which only one wing 
was left habitable, as the youthful beech, in all its vigor of shoot 
and bud, would appear to the same aged oak stripped of its boughs, 
and rifted by lightning, one-half laid in shivers on the ground, and 
the other remaining a blackened and ungraceful trunk, rent and 
splintered, and without either life or leaves. Sir Geoffrey could not 
but feel that the situation and prosix3cts were exchanged as disad- 
vanlageously for himself as the appearance of their mansions; and 
lhat though the authority of the man in office under the pailiament. 


PEVEllIL OF THE PEAK. 


41 

the sequestrator, and the Committeeman, had been only exerted tor 
the protection of the Cavalier and the malignant, they would have 
been as eflectual it applied to procure his utter ruin; and that he 
was become a client, while his neighbor was elevated into a patron. 

There were two considerations,'“besides the necessity of the case 
and the constant advice of his lady, which enabled Peveril of the 
Peak to endure, with some patience, this state of degradation. The 
first was, that the politics of Major Bridgenorth began, on many 
points, to assimilate themselves to his own. As a Presbyterian, he 
was not an utter enemy to monarehy, and had been considerably 
shocked at the unexpected trial and execution of the king ; as a 
civilian and a man of property, he feared the domination of the mili- 
tary; and though he' wished not to see Charles restored by force of 
arms, yet he arrived at the conclusion, that to bring back the heir of 
the royal family on such terms of composition as might insure the 
protection of those popular immunities and privileges for which the 
Long Parliament had at first contended, would be the surest and 
most desirable termination to the mutations in state affairs which 
had agitated Britain. Indeed, the major’s ideas on this point ap- 
proached so nearly those of his neighbor, that he had well-nigh suf- 
fered Sir Geoffrey, who had a finger in almost all the conspiracies of 
the Royalists, to involve him in the unfortunate rising of Penrud- 
dock and Groves, in the west, in which many of the Presbyterian 
interest, as well as the Cavalier party, were engaged. And though 
his habitual prudence eventually kept him out of this and other dan- 
gers, Major Bridgenorth was considered during the last years of 
Cromwell’s domination, and the interregnum which succeeded, as a 
disaffected person to the Commonwealth, and a favorer of Charles 
Stewart. 

But besides this approximation to .the same political opinions, 
another bond of intimacy united the families of the Castle and the 
Hall. Major Bridgenorth, fortunate, and eminently so, in all his 
worldly transactions, was visited by severe and reiterated misfort- 
unes in his family, and became, in this particular, an object of com- 
passion to his poorer and more decayed neighbor. Betwixt the break- 
ing out of the Civil War and the Restoration, he lost successively a 
family of no less than six children, apparently through a delicacy of 
constitution, which cut off tire little prattlers at the early age when 
they most wind themselves around the heart of the parents. 

In the beginning of the year 1658, Major Bridgenorth was child- 
less; ere it ended, he had a daughter, indeed, but her birth was pur- 
chased by the death of an affectionate wife whose constitution had 
been exhausted by maternal grief, and by the anxious and harrow- 
ing reflection, that from her the children they had lost derived that 
delicacy of health, which proved unable to undergo the tear and 
wear of existence. The same voice which (old Bridgenorth that he 
was father of a living child (it was the friendly voiee of Lady 
Peveril) communicated to him the melancholy intelligence that he 
w*as no longer a husband. The feelings of Major Bridgenorth w^ere 
strong and deep, rather than hasty and vehement; and his grief as- 
sumed the form of a sullen stupor, from which neither the friendly 
remonstrances of Sir Geoffrey, ^yhodid not fail to be with his neigh- 
bor at this distressing conjuncture, even though he knew^ he must 


PEYEEIL OE THE PEAK. 


42 

meet the Presbyterian pastor, nor the ghostly exhortations of this 
latter person, were able to rouse the unfortunate widower. 

At length Lady Peveril, with the ready invention of a female 
sharpened by the sight of distress and the feelings of sympathy, tried 
on the sufferer one of those experiments by which grief is often 
awakened from despondency into tears. She placed in Bridgenorth’s 
arms the infant whose birth had cost him so dear, and conjured him 
to remember that his Alice was not yet dead, since she survived in 
the helpless child she had left to his paternal care. 

“ Take her away — take her away!” said the unhappy man, and 
they were the first words he had spoken; “ let me not look on her 
— it is but another blossom that has bloomed to fade, and the tree 
that bore it will never flourish morel” 

He almost threw the child into Lady PeveriTs arms, placed his 
hands before his face, and wept aloud. Lady Peveril did not say 
“ Be comforted,” but she ventured to promise that the blossom 
should ripen to fruit. 

“Never, never!” said Bridgenorth; “take the unhappy child 
away, and let me only know when 1 shall wear black for her — Wear 
black!” he exclaimed, interrupting himself, “ what other color shall 
1 wear during the remainder of my life?” 

“ 1 wnll take the child for a season,” said Lady Peveril, “ since 
the sight of her is so painful to you ; and the little Alice shall share 
the nursery of our Julian, until it shall be pleasure and not pain for 
you to look on her.” 

“ That hour will never come,” said the unhappy father; “ her 
doom is written — she will follow the rest — God’s will be done. 
Lady, 1 thank you — 1 trust her to your care; and 1 thank God that 
my eye shall not see her d^dng agonies.” 

Without detaining the reader’s attention longer on this painful 
theme, it is enough to say that the Lady Peveril did undertake the 
duties of a mother to the little orphan; and perhaps it was owing, 
in a great measure, to her judicious treatment of the infant, that its 
feeble hold of life was preserved, since the glimmering spark might 
‘ probably have been altogether smothered, had it, like the major’s 
former children, undergone the over-care and over-nursing of a 
mother rendered nervously cautious and anxious by so many succes- 
sive losses. The lady was the more ready to undertake this charge, 
that she herself had lost two infant children; and that she attributed 
the preservation of the third; now a fine healthy child of three years 
old, to Julian’s being subjected to rather a different course of diet 
and treatment than was then generally practiced. She resolved to 
follow the same regimen with the little orphan, which she had ob- 
served in the case of her own boy; and it was equally suceessful. 
By a more sparing use of medicine, by a bolder admission of fresh 
air, by a firm, yet cautious attention to encourage rather than to 
supersede the exertions of nature, the puny infant, under the care of 
an excellent nurse, gradually improved in strength and in liveliness. 

Sir Geoffrey, like most men of his frank and good-natured dis- 
position, was naturally fond of children, and so much compassionate 
ed the sorrows of his neighbor, that he entirely forgot his being a 
Presbyterian, until it became necessary that the infant should be 
christened by a teacher of that persuasion. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


45 

This was a trying case— the father seemed incapable of giving 
direction; and that the threshold of Marlindale Castle should be vio- 
lated by the heretical step ot a dissenting clergyman, was matter of 
horror to its orthodox ov/ner. He had seen the famous Hugh 
Peters, with a Bible in one hand and a pistol in the other, ride in tri- 
umph through the court-door when Martindale was surrendered;, 
and the bitterness of that hour had entered like' iron into his soul. 
Yet such was Lady Peveril’s influence over the prejudices of her 
hirsband, that he was induced to connive at the ceremony taking: 
place in a remote garden-house, which was not properly within the 
precincts ot the castle wall. The lady even dared to be present 
while the ceremony was performed by the Reverend Master Sols- 
grace, who had once preached a sermon of three hours’ length be- 
fore the House of Commons, upon a thanksgiving occasion after the 
relief of Exeter. Sir Geoffrey PeveriJ took care to be absent the 
whole day from the castle, and it was only from the great interest 
which he rook in the washing, perfuming, and as it were purifica- 
tion ot the summer-house, that it could have been guessed he knew 
any thing of what had taken place in it. 

But, whatever prejudices the good knight might entertain against 
his neighbor’s form of religion, they did not in any way influence 
his feelings toward him as a sufferer under severe affliction. The 
mode in which he showed his sympathy was rather singular, but ex- 
actly suiled the character of both, and the terms on which they stood 
with each other. 

Morning after morning the good baronet made Moultrassie Hall 
the termination of his walk or ride, and said a single word of kind- 
ness as he passed. Sometimes he entered the old parlor where the 
proprietor sat in a solitary wretchedness nnd despondency; but more 
frequently (for Sir Geoffrey did not pretend to great talents of con- 
versation) he paused on the terrace, and stopping or halting his 
horse by the latticed window, said aloud to the melancholy inmate, 
“ How is it with you. Master Bridgenorth?” (the knight would 
never acknowledge his neighbor’s military rank of major;) “ 1 just 
looked in to bid you keep a good heart, man, and to tell you that 
Julian is well, and little Alice is well, and all are well at Martindale 
Castle.” 

A deep sigh, sometimes coupled with “ I thank you, Sir Geoffrey; 
my grateful duty waits on Lady Peveiil,” was generally Bridge- 
north’s only answer. But the news was received on the one part 
with the kindness which was designed upon the other; it gradually 
became less painful and more interesting, the lattice window was 
never closed, nor was the leathern easy-chair which stood next to it, 
ever empty, when the usual hour ot the baronet’s momentary visit 
approached. At length the expectation of that passing minute be- 
came the pivot upon which the thoughts of poor Bridgenorth turned 
during all the rest of the day. Most men have known the influence 
of such brief but ruling moments at some period of their lives. The 
moment when a lover passes the window of his mistress — the mo- 
ment when the epicure hears the dinner-bell — is that into which is 
crowded the whole interest of the day; the hours which precede it 
are spent in anticipation; the hours which follow, in reflection on 
what has passed ; and fancy dwelling on each brief circumstance 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


44 

gives to seconds tlie duration of minutes, to minutes that of hours. 
Thus seated in his lonely chair, Bridgenorth could catch at a dis- 
tance the stately step of Sir Geoffrey, or the heavy tramp of his war- 
horse, Black Hastings, which had borne him in many an action;^ he 
could hear the hum of “ The king shall enjoy his own again,” or 
the habitual whistle of “ Cuckolds and Roundheads,” die into rever- 
ential silence, as thS knight approached the mansion of affliction; 
and then came the strong hale voice of the huntsman soldier with its 
usual greeting. 

By degrees the communication became something more protracted, 
as Major Bridgenorth’s grief, like all human feelings, lost its over- 
whelming violence, and permitted him to attend, in some degree, to 
what passed around him, to discharge various duties which pressed 
upon him, and to give a share of attention to the situation of the 
country, distracted as it was by the contending factions, whose strife 
only terminated in the Restoration. Still, however, though slowly 
recovering from the effects of the shock which he had sustained. 
Major Bridgenorth felt himselt .as yet unable to make up his mind 
to the effort necessary to see his infant; and though separated by so 
short a distance from the being in whose existence he was more in- 
terested than in any thing the world afforded, he only made himself 
acquainted with the windows of the apartment where little Alice 
was lodged, and was of ten observed to watch them from the ten ace, 
as they brightened in the evening under the influence of the setting 
sun. In truth, though a strong-minded man in most respects, he 
w^as unable to lay aside the gloomy impression that this remaining 
pledge of affection was soon to be coneeyed to that grave which had 
already devoured all besides that was dear to him; and he awaited 
in miserable suspense the moment when he should hear that symp- 
toms of the fatal malady had begun to show themselves. 

The voice of Peveril continued to be that of a comforter, until the 
month of April, 1660, when it suddenly assumed a new and differ- 
ent tone. ” The king shall enjoy his own again,” far from ceasing, 
as the hasty tread of Black Hastings came up the avenue, bore bur- 
den to the clatter of his hoofs on the paved court-yard, as Sir Geof- 
frey sprung from his great war-saddle, now once more garnished with 
pistols of two feet in length, and, armed with steel-cap, back and 
breast, and a truncheon in his hand, he rushed into the apartment 
of the astonished major, with his eyes sparkling, and his cheek in- 
flamed, while he called out, “Up! up, neighbor! No time now to 
mope in the chimney-corner! Where is your buff -coat and broad- 
sword, man? Take the true side once in your life, and mend past 
mistakes. The king is all lenity, man — all roya^ nature and mercy. 
1 will get your full pardon.” 

” What means all this?” said Bridgenorth. “ Is all well with 
you — all well at Martindale Castle, Sir Geoffrey?” 

” Welh as you could wish them, Alice, and Julian, and all. But 
I have neU^worth twenty of lliat — Monk has declared at London 
against those stinking scoundrels the Rump. Fairfax is up in York- 
shire — for the king — for the king, man! Churchmen, Presbyterians, 
and all, are in buff and bandoleer for King Charles. 1 have a letter 
from Fairfax to secure Derby and Chesterfield with all the men 1 
can make. D— n him, fine that 1 should take orders from him! 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


45 

But never mind that— all are friends now, and you and I, good 
neighbor, will charge abreast, as good neighbors should. See there ! 
read — read — read— and then boot and saddle in an instant. 

“ ‘ Hey for cavaliers— lio for cavaliers. 

Pray for cavaliers. 

Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, 

Have at old Beelzebub, 

Oliver shakes in bis bier !’ ” 

After thundering forth this elegant effusion of loyal enthusiasm, 
the sturdy cavalier’s heart became too full. He threw himself on a 
seat, and exclaiming, “ Did ever 1 think to live to see this happy 
day!” he wept, to his own surprise, as much as to that of Bridge- 
north. 

Upon considering the crisis in which the country was placed, it 
appeared to Major Bridgenorlh, as it had done to Fairfax, and other 
leaders of the Presbyterian part}'-, that their frank embracing of the 
royal interest was the wisest and most patriotic measure which they 
could adopt in the circumstances, when all ranks and classes of men 
w^ere seeking refuge from the uncertainty and varied oppression at- 
tending the repeated contests between the tactions of Westminster 
Hall and of Wallingford House. Accordingly he joined with Sir 
Geoffrey, with less enthusiasm indeed, but with equal sincerity, tak- 
ing such measures as seemed proper to secure their part of the coun- 
try on the king’s behalf, which was done as effectually and peacea- 
bly as in other pa^ts of England. The neighbors were both at 
Chesterfield, when news arrived that the king had landed in Eng- 
land ; and Sir Geoffrey instantly announced his purpose of waiting 
upon his majesty, even before his return to the Castle of Martindale. 

” Who knows, neighbor,” he said, ” whether Sir Geoffry Peveril 
will ever return to Martindale? Titles must be going amongst them 
yonder, and 1 have deserved something among the rest. Lord Pev- 
eril w^ould sound well— or stay, Earl of Martindale — no, not of Mar- 
tindale — Earl of the Peak. Meanwhile, trust your affairs to me~l 
will see you secured — 1 would you had been no Presbyterian, neigh- 
bor — a knighthood — 1 mean a knight-bachelor, not a knight-baron- 
et— would have served your turn well.” 

” 1 leave these things to my betters. Sir Geoffrey,” said the major, 
” and desire nothing so earnestly as to find all well at Martindale 
when 1 return. ” 

“You will— you will find them all well,” said the baronet; 
“Julian, Alice, Lady Peveril, and all of them — Bear my com- 
mendations to them, and kiss them all, neighbor. Lady Peveril and 
all — you may kiss a countess when 1 come back; all will go well 
with you now you are turned honest man.” 

“ 1 always meant to be so, Sir Geoffrey,” said Bridgenorlh, 
calmly. 

“ Well, well, well — no offense meant,” said the knight, “ all is 
well now — so you to Moultrassie Hall, and 1 to Whitehall. Said I 
well, aha! So ho, mine host, a stoup of Canary to the king’s health 
ere we get to horse — 1 forgot, neighbor — you drink no healths.” 

“ 1 wish the king’s health as sincerely as if 1 drank a gallon to 
it,” replied the major; “ and 1 wish you. Sir Geoffrey, all success 
on your journey, and a safe return.” 


46 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


CHAPTER 11. 

Why, then, we will have bellowing of beeves. 

Broaching of barrels, brandishing of spigots; 

Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore 
Of herds and flocks, and venison and poultry. 

Join’d to the brave heart’s-blood of John-a-Barleycorn ! 

Old Play. 

Whateveb rewards Charles mi^ht have condescended to bestow 
in acknowledgment of the suftenngs and loyalty ot Peveril of the 
Peak, he had none in his disposal equal to the pleasure which 
Providence had reserved for 15i idgenorth on his return to Derby- 
shire. The exertion to which he had been summoned, had had the 
usual effect ot restoring to a certain extent the activity and energy 
of his character, and he felt it would be unbecoming to relapse into 
the state ot lethargic melancholy from which it had roused him. 
Time also had its usual effect in mitigating the subjects ot his regret; 
and when he had passed one day at the Hall in regretting that he 
could not expect the indirect news of his daughter’s health, which 
Sir Geoffrey used to communicate in his almost daily call, he re- 
flected that it would be in every respect becoming that he should 
pay a personal visit at Martindale Castle, carry thither the remem- 
brances of the knight to his lady, assure her of his health, and 
satisfy himself respecting that of his daughter. He armed himself 
for the worst — he called to recollection the thin cheeks, faded eye, 
wasted hand, palli(i lip, which had marked the decaying health of 
all his former infants. 

“1 shall see,” he said, “these signs of mortality once more — 1 
shall once more see a beloved being to whom I have given birth, 
gliding to the grave which ought to inclose me long before her. 
No matter — it is unmanly so long to shrink from that which must 
be — God’s will be done!” 

He went accordingly, on the subsequent morning, to Martindale 
Castle, and gave the lady the welcome assurances ot her husband’s 
safety, and of his hopes of preferment, 

“ For the first, may Almighty God be praised!” said the Lady 
Peveril ; “ and be the other as our gracious and restored sovereign 
may will it. We are great enough for our means, and have means 
sufficient for contentment, though not for splendor. And now I 
see, good Master Bridgenorth, the folly of putting faith in idle pre- 
sentiments of evil. So often had Sir Geoffrey’s»repeated attempts in 
favor of the Stewarts led him into new misfortunes, that when, the 
other morning, 1 saw him once more dressed in his fatal armor, and 
Heard tlie sound of his trumpet, which had been so long silent, it 
seemed to me as if I saw his shroud, and heard his death-knell. 1 
say this to you, good neighbor, the rather because I fear your own 
mind has been harassed with anticipations of impending calanity 
which it may please God to avert in your case as it has done in 
mine; and here comes a sight which bears good assurance of it.” 

The door of the apartment opened as she spoke, and two lovely 
children entered. The eldest, Julian Peveril, a fine boy betwdxt four 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


47 

and five years old, led in his hand, with an air of dignified support 
and attention, a little girl of eighteen months, who rolled and tot- 
tered along, keeping herself with difficulty upiight by the assistance 
of her elder, stronger, and masculine companion. 

Bridgenorth cast a hasty and fearful glance upon the countenance 
of his daughter, and, even in that glimpse, perceived, with exquisite 
^delight, that his fears were unfounded. He caught her in his aims, 
pressed her to his heart, and the child, though at first alarmed at the 
Tehemence of his caresses, presently, as it prompted by Nature, 
smiled in reply to them. Again he held her at some distance from 
him, and examined her more attentively; he satisfied himself that 
the complexion of the young cherub he had in his arms was not the 
hectic tinge of disease, but the clear hue of ruddy health ; and that 
though her little frame was slight, it was firm and springy. 

“ 1 did not think that it could have been thus,” he said, looking 
to Lady Peveril, who had sat observing the scene with great pleas- 
ure; ” but praise De to God in the first instance, and next, thanks 
to you, madam, who have been his instrument.” 

” Julian must lose his playfellow now, I suppose?” said the lady; 

but the Hall is not distant, and 1 will see my little charge often. 
Dame Martha, the housekeeper at Moultrassie, has sense, and is 
careful. 1 will tell her the rules I have observed with little Alice, 
and—” 

“God forbid my girl should ever come to Moultrassie,” said 
Major Bridgenorth, hastily; “it has been the grave of her race. 
The air of the low ground suited them not — or there is perhaps a 
fate connected with the mansion. 1 will seek lor her some other 
place of abode. ” . 

“That you shall not, under your favor be it spoken. Major 
Bridgenorth,” answered the lady. “ If you do so, we must suppose 
that you are undervaluing my qualities as a nurse. If she goes not 
to her father’s house, she shall not quit mjne. 1 will keep the little 
lady as a pledge of her safety and my own skill; and since you are 
afraid of the damp of the low grounds, 1 hope you will come here 
frequently to visit her.” 

This wks a proposal which went to the heart of Major Bridge- 
north. It was precisely the point which he WQuld have given worlds 
to arrive at, but which he saw no chance of attaining. 

It is too well known, that (hose whose families are long pursued 
by such a fatal disease as existed in his, become, it may be said, 
superstitious respecting its fatal effects, and ascribe to place, circum- 
stance, and individual care, much more perrhaps than these can in 
any case contribute to avert the fatality of constitutional distemper. 
Lady Peveril was aware that this was peculiarly the impression of 
her neighbor; that the depression of his spirits, the excess of his 
care, the feverishness of his apprehensions, the restraint and gloom 
of the solitude in which he dwelt, were really calculated to produce 
the evil which most of all he dreaded. She pitied him, she felt for 
him, she was grateful for former protection received at his hands — 
she had become interested in the child itself. What female fails to 
feel such interest in the helpless creature she has tended? And to 
.sum the whole up, the dame had' a share of human vanity; and 
being a sort of Lady Bountiful in her way (for the character was 


48 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


not then confined to the old and the foolish), she was proud of the 
skill by which she had aveited the probable attacks of hereditary 
malady, so inveterate in the family of Bridgenorth, It needed not, 
perhaps, in other cases, that so many reasons shoidd be assigned for 
ah act of neighborly humanity; but civil war had so lately lorn the 
country asunder, and broken all the usual ties of vicinage and good 
neighborhood, that it was unusual to see them preserved among 
persons of different political opinions. 

Major Bridgenorth himself felt this; and while the tear of joy in 
his eye showed how gladly he would accept Lady PeveriPs proposal, 
he could not help stating the obvious inconveniences attendant upon 
her scheme, though it was in the tone of one who would gladly hear 
them overruled. “Madam,” he said, “your kindness makes me 
the happiest and most thankful of men; but can it be consistent 
with your own convenience? Sir Geoffrey has his opinions on many 
points, which have differed, and probably do still differ, from mine. 
He is high-born, and 1 of middling parentage only. He uses the 
Church Service, and 1 the Catechism of the Assembly of Divines at 
■Westminster — ” 

“ 1 hope you will find prescribed in neither of them,” said the 
Lady Peveril, “that 1 may not be a mother to your motherless 
child. I trust, Master Bridgenorth, the joyful restoration of his 
majesty, a work wrought by the direct harid of Providence, may be 
the means of closing and healing all civil and religious-dissensions 
among us, and that, instead of showing the superior purity of our 
faith, by persecuting those who think otlieiwise from ourselves on 
doctrinal points, we shall endeavor to snow its real Christian tend- 
ency, by emulating each other in actions of good-will toward man, 
as the best w^uy of showing our love to God.” 

“ Your ladyship speaks what your own kind heart dictates,” an- 
swered Bridgenorth, who had his own share of the narrow-minded- 
ness of the time; “ and, sure am 1, that if all who call themselves 
Loyalists and Cavaliers thought like you— and like my friend Sir 
Geoffrey ” — (this he added after a moment’s pause, being perhaps 
rather complimentary than sincere)—” we, who thought it our duty 
in time past to take arms for freedom of conscience, and against 
arbitrary power, might now sit down in peace and contentment. 
But 1 wot not how it may fall. Y"ou have sharp and hot spirits 
amongst you; 1 will not say our power was always moderately used, 
and revenge is sweet to the race of fallen Adam.” 

“ Come, Master Bridgenorth,” said the Lady Peveril, gayly, 
“ these evil omenings do but point out conclusions, which, unless 
they were so anticipated, are most unlikely to come to pass. Y"ou 
know what Shakespeare says : — 

“ ‘ To fly the boar before the boar pursues. 

Were to incense the boar to follow us, 

And make pursuit when he did mean no chase.’ ” 

But I crave your pardon— it is so long since we have met, that 1 
forgot you love no play-books.” 

“ Muth reverence to your lad 5 'ship,” said Bridgenorth, “ I wero 
much to blame did I need the idle words of a 'VYarwickshire stroller 
to teach me my grateful duty to your ladyship on this occasion, 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


49 


ivliicli appoints me to be directed by you in all things which my 
conscience will permit.” 

“Since 5^11 permit me such influence, then,” replied the Lady 
Peveril, “ 1 shall be moderate in exercising it, m order that 1 may, 
in my domination at least, give you a favorable impression of the 
new order of things. So, it you will be a subject of mine for one 
day, neighbor, 1 am going, at my lord and husband’s command, to 
issue out my warrants to invite the whole neighborhood to a solemn 
feast at the castle, on Thursday next ; and 1 not only pray you to be 
personally present yourself, but to prevail on your worthy pastor, 
and such neighbors and friends, high and low, as may think in your 
own way, to meet with the rest of the neighborhood, to rejoice on 
this joyful occasion of the King’s Restoration, and thereby to show 
that we arefto be henceforward a united people.” 

The parliamentarian major was considerably eml>airassed by this 
proposal. He looked upward, and dowmward, and around, cast his 
eye first to the oak-carved ceiling, and anon fixed it upon the floor; 
then threw it around the room till it lighted on his child, the sight 
of whom suggested another and a better train of reflections tlian ceil- 
ing and floor had been able to supply. 

“ Madam,” he said, “ I have long been a stranger to festivity, per- 
haps from constitutional melancholy, perhaps from the depression 
which is natural to a desolate and deprived man, in whose ear mirth 
is marred, like a pleasant air when performed on a mistimed instru- 
ment. But though neither my'thoughts nor temperament are jovial 
or mercurial, it becomes me to be grateful to Heaven for the good 
he has sent me by the means of your lad 3 "ship. David, the man 
after God’s own heart, did wash and eat bread when his beloved 
child was removed— mine is restored to me, and shall 1 not show 
gratitude under a blessing, when he showed resignation under an 
affliction? Madam, 1 will wait on your gracious invitation with 
iicceptance; and such of mj’^ friends with whom 1 may possess in- 
fluence, and whose presence your ladyship may desire, shall accom- 
pany me to the festivity, that our Israel may be as one people.” 

Having spoken these words with an aspect which belonged more 
to a martjT than to a guest bidden to a festival, and having kissed, 
and solemnly blessed his little girl. Major Bridgenorth took his de- 
parture for Moultrassie Hall. 

CHAPTER 111. 

Here’s neither want of appetite nor mouths; 

Pray Heaven we be not scant of meat or mirth ! 

Old Play. 

Even upon ordinary occasions, and where means were ample, a 
great entertainment in those days was not such a sinecure as in 
rnodern times, when the lady who presides has but to intimate to 
her menials the day and hour w'hen she wills it to take place. At 
that simple period, the lady was expected to enter deeply into the 
arrangement and provision of the whole affair; and from a little 
gallery, which communicated with her own private apartment, and 
looked down upon the kitchen, her shrill voice was to be heard, 
from time to time, like that of the warning spirit in a tempest, ris- 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


50 

ang above the clash of pots and stewpans— the creaking of spits — 
the clattering of marrow-bones and cleavers — the scolding of cooks 
— and all the other various kinds of din which form an accompani- 
ment to dressing a large dinner. 

But all this toil and anxiety was more than doubled in the case of 
the approaching feast at Martindale Castle, where the presiding 
Genius of the festivity was scarce provided with adequate means to 
carry her hospitable purpose into effect. The tyrannical conduct of 
husbands, in such cases, is universal ; and 1 scarce know one house- 
holder of my acquaintance who has not, on some ill-omened and 
most inconvenient season, announced suddenly to his innocent help- 
mate, that he had invited. 

“ Some odious Major Rock, 

To drop in at six o’clock,” 

to the great discomposure of the lady, and the discredit, perhaps, of 
her doWstic arrangements, 

Peveril of the Peak was still more thoughtless; for he had di- 
rected his lady to invite the whole honest men of the neighborhood 
to make good cheer at Martindale Castle, in honor of the blessed Res- 
toration of his most sacred majesty, without precisely explaining 
where the provisions were to come from. The deer-park had lain 
waste ever since the siege; the dovecot could do little to furnish 
forth sueh an entertainment; the fish-ponds, it is true, were well 
provided, (which the neighboring Presbyterians noted as a suspicious 
circumstance;) and game was to be had for the shooting, upon the 
extensive heaths and hills of Derbyshire. But these were but the 
secondary parts of a banquet; and the house-steward and bailiff. 
Lady Peveril’s only coadjutors and counselors, could not agree how 
the butcher-meat — the most substantial part, or, as it were, the main 
body of the entertainment — was to be supplied. The house-steward 
threatened the sacrifice of a fine yoke of young bullocks, which the 
bailff, who pleaded the necessity of their agricultural services, 
tenaciously resisted; and Lady Peveril’s good and dutiful nature did 
not prevent her from making some impatient reflections on the want 
of consideration of her absent knight, who had thus thoughtlessly 
placed her in so embarrassing a situation. 

These reflections were scarcely just, if a man is only responsible 
for such resolutions as he adopts when he is fully master of him- 
self. Sir Geoffrey’s loyalty, like that of many persons in his 
situation, had, by dint of hopes and fears, victories and defeats, 
struggles and sufferings, all arising out of the same moving 
cause, and turning, as it were, on the same pivot, acquired the 
character of an intense and enthusiastic passion; and the singular 
and surprising change of fortune, by which his highest wishes were 
not only gratified, but far exceeded, occasioned for some time a 
kind of intoxication of loyal rapture which seemed to pervade the 
whole kingdom. Sir Geoffrey had seen Charles and his brothers, 
and had been received by the merry monarch with tliat graceful, 
and at the same time frank urbanity, by which he conciliated all 
who approached him; the knight’s services and merits had been 
fully acknowledged, and recompense had been hinted at, if not ex- 
pressly promised. Was it for Peveril of the Peak, in the jubilee of 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 51 

his spirits, to consider how his wife was to find beef and mutton to 
feast his neighbors? 

Luckily, however, for the embarrassed lady, there existed some 
one who had composure of mind sufficient to foresee this difficulty. 
Just as she had made up her mind, very reluctantly, to become 
debtor to Major Bridgenorth for the sum necessary to carry her hus- 
band’s commands into effect, and whilst she was bitterly regretting 
this departure from the strictness of her usual economy, the stew- 
ard, who, by the by, had not been absolutely sober since the news 
of the King’s landing at Dover, burst into the apartment, snapping 
his fingers, and showing more marks of delight than was quite con- 
sistent with the dignity of my lady’s large narlor. 

“ What means this, Whitaker?” said the lady, somewhat peev- 
ishly; for she was interrupted in the commencement of a letter to 
her neighbor on the unpleasant business of the proposed loan — “ Is 
it to be always thus with you? Are you dreaming?” 

“ A vision of good omen, 1 trust,” said the steward, with a tri- 
umphant flourish ol the hand; “ far better than Pharaoh’s, though/ 
like his, it be of fat kine. ’ ’ 

“ 1 prithee be plain, man,” said the lady, “ or fetch some one who 
can speak to purpose,” 

” Why, odds-my-life, madam,” said the steward, ” mine errand 
can speak for itself. Do you not hear them low? Do you not hear 
them bleat? A yoke of fat oxen, and half a score prime wethers. 
The castle is victualled for th's bout, let them storm when they will; 
and Gatherill may have his d — d Mains ploughed to the boot.” 

The lady, without farther questioning her elated domestic, rose 
and went to the window, where she certainly beheld the oxen and 
sheep which had given rise to Whitaker’s exultation. “ Whence 
come they?” said she, in some surprise, 

“Let them construe that who can,” answered Whitaker; “the 
fellow who drove them was a west- countryman, and only said they 
came from a friend to help to furnish out your ladyship’s entertain- 
ment; the man would not stay to drink — 1 am sorry he would not 
stay to drink — 1 crave your ladyship’s pardon for not keeping him by 
the ears to drink— it was not my fault.” 

“ That I’ll be sworn it was not,” said the lady. 

“Nay, madam, by G— 1 assure you it vras not,” said the zeal- 
ous steward; “ for rather than the castle should lose credit, 1 drank 
liis health myself in double ale, though I had had my morning 
draught already. 1 tell ybii the naked truth, my lady, by G— !” 

“It was no great compulsion, I suppose,” said the lady; “but, 
Whitaker, suppose you should show your joy on such occasions, by 
drinking and swearing a little less, rather than a little more, would 
it not be as well, think j^ou?” 

“I crave your ladyship’s pardon,” said Whitaker, with much 
reverence: “ I hope 1 know my place. 1 am your lad 3 ^ship’s poor 
servant; and 1 know it does not become me to drink and swear like 
your ladyship— that is, like his honor. Sir Geoffrey, 1 would say. 
But 1 pray you, if I am not to drink and swear after my degree, 
how are men to know Peveril of the Peak’s steward— and 1 may say 
butler too, since 1 have had the keys of the cellar ever since old 
Spigots was shot dead on the north tvest turret, with a black jack in 


62 PEYERTL OF THE PEAK. 

his hand — 1 sa5^ how is an old Cavalier like me to be known from 
those cuckoldy Roundheads that do nothing but fast and pray, if we 
are not to drink and swear according to our degree?” 

The lady was silent, for she well knew speech availed nothing; 
and, after a moment’s pause, proceeded to intimate to the steward 
that she would have the persons, whose npies were marked in a 
written paper, which she delivered to him, invited to the approach- 
ing banquet. 

"Whitaker, instead of receiving the list with the mute acquiescence 
of a modern Major Domo, carried it into the recess of one of the 
windows, and adjusting his spectacles began to read it to himself. 
The first names being those of distinguished Cavalier families in the 
neigborhood, he muttered over in a tone of approbation — paused 
and pshawed at "that of Bridgenorth — yet acquiesced with the obser- 
vation, ” But he is a good neighbor, so it may pass for once.” But 
when he read the name and surname of Nehemiah Solsgrace, the 
Presbyterian parson, Whitaker’s patience altogether forsook him, 
and he declared he would as soon throw himself into Eldon- hole 
as consent that the intrusive old puritan howlet, who had usurped 
the pulpit of a sound orthodox divine, should evp* darken the gates 
of Martindale Castle by any message or mediation of his. “ The 
false crop-eared hypocrites,” cried he, with a hearty oath, “have 
had their turn of the good weather. The sun is on our side of the 
hedge now, and we will pay off old scores, as sure as my name is 
Richard Whitaker.” 

“You presume on your long services, Whitaker and on your 
master's absence, or you had not dared to use me thus,” said the 
lady. 

The unwonted agitation of her voice attracted the attention of the 
refractory steward, notwithstanding his present state of elevation ; 
but he no sooner saw that her eye glistened, and her cheek red- 
dened, than his obstinacy was at once subdued. 

“ A murrain on me,” he said, “ but 1 have made my lady angry 
in good earnest! and that is an unwonted sight for to see. I crave 
your pardon, my lady! It was not poor Dick YThitaker disputed 
your honorable commands, but only that second draught of double 
ale. We have put a double stroke of malt to it, as your ladyship 
well knows, ever since the happy Restoration. To be sure I hate a 
fanatic as 1 do the cloven foot of Satan; but then your honorable 
ladyship had a right to invite Satan himself, cloven foot and all, to 
Martindale Castle; and to send me to helPs-gate with a billet of in- 
vitation — and so your will shall be done.” 

The invitations were sent round accordingly, in all due form; and 
one of the bullocks was sent down to be roasted whole at the market 
Xjlace of a little village called Martindale- Moultrassie, which stood 
considerably to the eastward both of the castle and hall, from which 
it took its double name, at about an equal distance from both ; so 
that, suppose a line drawn from the one manor-house to the other, 
to be the base of a triangle, the village would have occupied the sal- 
ient angle. As the said village, since the late transference of a i)ait 

* A chasm in the earth supposed to be unfathomable, one of the wonders of 
the Peak. 


PETEPtIL OF THE PExVK. 


53 

of Peveril’s property, belonged to Sir Geoffrey and to Bridgenortli, 
in nearly equal portions, the lady judged ,it not proper to dispute the 
right of the latter to add some hogsheads of beer to the popular fes- 
tivity. 

In the meanwhile, she could not but suspect the major of being 
the unknown friend who had relieved her from the dilemma' arising 
from the want of provisions; and she esteemed herself happy when 
a visit from him, on the day preceding the proposed entertainment, 
gave her, as she thought, an opportunity of expressina: her gratitude. 


CHAPTER IV. 

' No, sir— I will not pledge— I’m one of those 

Who think good wine needs neither bush nor preface 
To make it welcome. If you doubt mj’- word, 

Fill the quart-cup, and see if I will choke on ’t. 

Old Play. 

There was a serious gravity of expression in the disclamation 
with which Major Bridgenorth replied to the thanks tendered to him 
by Lady Peveril, for the supply of provisions which had reached 
her castle so opportunely. He seemed first not to be aware what she 
alluded to; and, when she explained the circumstance, he protested 
so seriously that he had no share in the benefit conferred, that Lady 
Peveril was compelled to believe him, the rather that,, being a man 
of plain downright character, affecting no refined delicacy of senti- 
ment and practicing almost a quaker-like sincerity of expression, it 
would have been much contrary to his general character to have 
made such a disavowal, unless it were founded in truth. 

“ My present visit to you, madam,” said he, “-had indeed some 
reference to the festivity of to-morrow.” Lady Peveril listened, but 
as her visitoi' seemed to find some difficulty in expressing himself, 
she was compelled to ask an explanation. “Madam.” said the 
major, “you are not perhaps entirely ignorant that the more ten- 
der-conscienced among us have scruples at certain practices, so gen- 
eral mongst your people at times of rejoicing, that you may be said 
to insist upon them as articles of faith, or at least greatly to resent 
their omission. ’ ’ 

“ 1 trust. Master Bridgenorth,” said the Lady Peveril, not fully 
comprehending the drift of his discourse, ‘ ‘ that we shall, as your 
entertainers, carefully avoid all allusions or reproaches founded on 
past misunderstanding. ’ ’ 

“ We would expect no less, madam, from your candor and courte- 
sy,” said Bridgenorth; “but 1 perceive you do not fully under- 
stand me. To be plain, then, 1 allude to the fashion of drinking 
healths, and pledging each other in draughts of strong liquor, 
which most among us consider as a superfluous and sinful provok- 
ing of each other to debauchery, and the excessive use of strong 
drink; and which, besides, it derived, as learned divines have sup- 
posed, from the custom of the blinded Pagans, who made libations 
and invoked idols when they drank, may be justly said to have 
something in it heathenish, and allied to demon-worship.” 

The lady had already hastily considered all the topics which were 
likely to introduce discord into the proposed festivity ; but this very 


54 


PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


ridiculous, yet fatal discrepancy, betwixt tlie manners of the parties 
on convivial occasions, had entirely escaped her. She endeavored 
to soothe the objecting party, whose brows were knit like one who 
had fixed an opiniom% which he was determined to abide. 

“ 1 grant,” she said, “ my good neiglibor, that this custom is at 
least idle, and may be prejudicial if it leads to excess in the use of 
liquor, which is apt enough to take place without such conversa- 
tion. But 1 think, when it hath not this consequence, it is a thing 
indifferent, affords a unanimous mode of expressing our good wishes 
to our friends, and our loyal duty to our sovereign; and, without 
meaning to put any force upon the inclination of those who believe 
otherwise, 1 cannot see how 1 can deny my guests and friends the 
privilege of drinking a health to the king, or to my husband, after 
the old English fashion.” 

” My lady,” said the major, “ if the age of fashion were to com- 
mand it. Popery is one of the oldest English fashions that 1 have 
heard of ; but it is our happiness that we are not benighted like our 
fathers, and therefore we must act according to the light that is in 
us, and not after their darkness. 1 had myself the honor to attend 
the Lord-Keeper Whitelocke, when, at the table of the Chamberlain 
of the kingdom of Sweden, he did positively refuse to pledge the 
health of his queen, Christina, thereby giving great offense, and 
putting in peril the whole purpose of that voyage; which it is not to 
be thought so wise a man would have done, but that he held such 
compliance a thing not merely indifferent, but rather sinful and dam- 
nable.” 

” With all respect to Whitelocke,” said the Lady Peveril, “ 1 con- 
tinue of my own opinion, though. Heaven knows, I am no friend 
to riot or wassail. 1 would fain accommodate myself to your scru- 
ples, and will discourage all other pledges ; but surely those of the 
king and of Peveril of the Peak may be permitted?” 

” 1 dare not,” answered Bridgenorth, “ lay even the ninety-ninth 
part of a grain of incense upon an altar erected to Satan.” 

” How, sir!” said the lady; ” do you bring Satan into comparison 
with our master King Charles, and with my noble lord and hus- 
band?” 

” Pardon me, madam,” answered Bridgenorth, “ I have no such 
thoughts — indeed they would ill become me. 1 do wish the king’s 
health and Sir Geoffrey’s devoutly, and I will pray for both. But 1 
see not what good it should do their health if 1 should prejudice my 
own by quaffing pledges out of quart flagons.” 

‘‘Since we cannot agree upon this matter,” said Lady Peveril, 
“ we must find some resource by which to offend those of neither 
party. Suppose you winked at our friends drinking these pledges, 
and we should connive at your sitting still?” 

But neither would this composition satisfy Bridgenorth, who was 
of opinion, as he expressed himself, that it would be holding a can- 
dle to Beelzebub. In fact, his temper, naturally stubborn, was at 
present rendered much moi’e so by a previous conference wilh his 
preacher, who, though a very good man in the main, was particu- 
larly and illiberally tenacious of the petty distinctions which his sect 
adopted; and, wi-hile he thought with considerable apprehension on 
the accession of power -which Popery, Prelacy, and Peveril of the 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


55 

Peak, were like to acquire by the late Revolution, became naturally 
anxious to put his flock on their guard, and prevent their being kid- 
napped by the wolt. He disliked extremeljr that Major Bridgenorth, 
indisputably the head of the Presbyterian interest in that neighbor- 
iiood, should have given his only daughter to be, as he termed it, 
nursed by a Canaanitish woman ; and he told him plainly that he 
liked not this going to feast in the high places with the uncircum- 
nised in heart, and looked on the whole conviviality only as a mak- 
ing-merry in the house of Tirzah. 

Upon receiving this rebuke from his pastor, Bridgenorth began to 
suspect he might have been partly wrong in the readiness which, in 
Jiis first ardor of gratitude, he had shown to enter into intimate in- 
tercourse with the Castle of Martindale; but he was too proud to 
nvow this to the preacher, and it was not till after a considerable 
debate betwixt them, that it was mutually agreed their presence at 
the entertainment should depend upon the condition, that no healths 
or pledges should be given in their presence. Bridgenorth, therefore, 
as the delegate and representative of his party, was bound to stand 
firm against all entreaty, and the lady became greatly embarrassed. 
She now regretted sincerely that her well-intended invitation had 
over been given, for she foresaw that its rejection was to awaken all 
former subjects of quarrel, and perhaps to lead to new violences 
amongst people who had not many years since been engaged in civil 
war. To yield up the disputed point to the Presbyterians would 
have been to offend the Cavalier party, and Sir Geoffrey in particu- 
lar, in the most mortal degree; for they made it as firm a point of 
honor to give healths, and compel others to pledge them, as the 
Puritans made it a deep article of religion to refuse b^oth. At length 
the lady changed the discourse, introduced that of Major Bridge- 
north’s child, caused it to he sent for, and put into his arms. The 
mother’s stratagem took effect; for, though the parliamentary major 
stood firm, the father, as in the case of the Governor of Tilbury, 
was softened, and he agreed that his friends should accept a com- 
promise. This was, that the major himself, the reverend divine, 
and such of their friends as held strict Puritan tenets, should form 
a separate party in the large parlor, while the hall should be occu- 
pied by the jovial cavaliers; and that each party should regulate 
their potations after their own conscience, or after their own fashion. 

Major Bridgenorth himself seemed greatly relieved after this im- 
portant matter had been settled. He had held it matter of con- 
science to be stubborn in. maintaining his own opinion, but was 
heartily glad when he escaped from the apparently inevitable neces- 
sity of affronting Lady Peveril by the refusal of her invitation. He 
remained longer than usual, and spoke and smiled more than was 
his custom. His first care on his return was to announce to the 
clergyman and his congregation the compromise which he had 
made, and this not as a matter for deliberation, but one upon which 
he had already resolved; and such was his authority among them, 
that though the preacher longed to pronounce a separation of the 
parties, and to exclaim, “ To your tents, O fsrael!” he did not see 
the chance of being seconded by so many, as would make it worth 
while to disturb the unanimous acquiescence in their delegate’s pro- 
posal. 


PEVElilL OF THE PEAK. 


56 

Nevertheless, each party heing put upon the alert by the conse- 
quences of Major Bridgenorth’s embassy, so many points of doubt 
and delicate discussion'^ were started in succession, that the Lady 
Peveril, the only person, perhaps, who was desirous of achieving an 
effectual reconciliation between them, incurred, in reward for her 
good intentions, the censure of both factions, and had much reason 
to regret her well-meant project of bringing the Capulets and Mon- 
tagues of Derbyshire together on the same occasion of public fes- 
tivity. 

As it was now settled that the guests were to form two different 
parties, it became not only a subject of dispute betwixt themselves, 
wLich should be first admitted within the Castle of Martindale, but 
matter of serious apprehension to Lady Peveril and Major Bridge- 
north, lest, if they were to approach by the same avenue and en- 
trance. a quarrel might take pi^ce betwixt them, and proceed to ex- 
tremiites, even before they reached the place of entertainment. The 
lady believed she had discovered an admirable expedient for prevent- 
ing the possibility of such interference, by directing that tire Cava- 
liers should be admitted by the principal entrance, while the Round- 
heads should enter the castle through a great breach which had been 
made in the course of the siege, and across which there had been 
since made a sort of by-path to drive the cattle down to their past- 
ure in the wood. By this contrivance the Lady Peveril imagined she 
had altogether avoided the various risks which might occur from 
two such parties encountering each other, and disputing for preced- 
ence, Several other circumstances of less importance were adjusted 
at the same time, and apparently so much to the satisfaction of the 
Presbyterian teacher, that, ima long lecture on the subject of the 
marriage garment, he was at the pains to explain to his hearers that 
outward tq^parel was not alone meant by that scriptural expression, 
but also a suitable frame of mind for enjoyment of peaceful festiv- 
ity; and therefore he exhorted the brethren, that whatever might be 
the errors of the poor blinded malignants, with whom they were in 
some sort to eat and drink upon the morrow, they ought not on this 
occasion to show any evil will against them, lest they should therein 
become troublers of the peace of Israel. 

Honest Dr. Dummerar, the ejected episcopal Vicar of Martindale 
cum Moultrassie, preached to the cavaliers on the same subject. He 
had served the cure before the breaking out of the Rebellion, and 
was in high favor with Sir Geoffrey, not merely on account of his 
sound orthodoxy and deep learning, but his exquisite skill in play- 
ing at bowls, and his facetious conversation over a pipe and tankard 
of October. For these latter accomplishments, theMoctor had the 
honor to be recorded by old Century White amongst the roll of 
lewd, incompetent, profligate cleraymen of the Church of England, 
whom he denounced to God and man, on account chiefly of the 
heinous sin of playing at games of sivill and chance, and of occasion- 
ally joining in the social meetings of their parishioners. When the 
king's party began to lose ground, Di. Dummerar left his vicarage, 
and, betaking himself to the camp, showed upon several occasions, 
when acting as chaplain to Sir Geoffrey Peveril’s regiment, that his 
portly bodily presence included a stout and masculine heart. When 
all was lost, and he himself, with most other loyal divines, was de- 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


57 

prived of Ms living, lie made sucli shift as he could; now lurking 
in the garrets of old friends in the university, who shared with him, 
and such as him, the slender means of livelihood which the evil 
times had left them; and now l3iug hid in the houses of the op- 
pressed and sequestrated gentry, who respected at once his character 
and sufferings. When the Restoration took place. Dr. Dummerar 
emerged from some one of his hiding places, and hied him to Mar- 
tindale Castle, to enjoy the triumph inseparable fixmi this happy 
change. 

His appearance at the castle in his full clerical dress, and the 
warm reception which he received from the neighboring gentry, 
added not a little to the alarm which was gradually extending itself 
through the party which were so lately the uppermost. It is true. 
Dr. Dummerar framed (honest w^orthy man) no extravagant views 
of elevation or preferment; but the probability of his being replaced 
in the living, from which he had been expelled under very flimsy 
pretenses, inferred a severe blow to the Presbyterian divine, who 
could not be considered otherwise than as an intruder. The interest 
of the tvvo preachers, therefore, as well as the sentiments of their 
flocks, were at direct variance; and here was another fatal objection 
in tire way of Lady PeveriPs scheme of a general and comprehen- 
sive healing ordinance. 

Nevertheless, as we have already hinted. Dr. Dummerar behaved 
as handsomely upon the occasion as the Presbyterian incumbent had 
done. It is true, that in a sermon which he preached in the castle 
hall to several of the most distinguished Cavalier families, besides a 
world of boys from the village, who went to see the novel circum- 
stance of a parson in a cassock and surplice, he went at great length 
into the foulness of the various crimes committed by the rebellious 
party during the late evil limes, and greatly magnified the merciful 
and peaceful nature of the honorable Lady of the Manor, who con- 
descended to look upon, or receive into her house in the way of 
.friendship and hospitality, men holding the principles which had 
led to the murder of the king — the slaying and despoiling his loyal 
subjects — and the plundeiiug and breaking down of the Church of 
God. But then he wiped all this handsomely up again, with the 
observation, that since it was the will of their gracious and newly 
restored sovereign, and the pleasure of the worshipful Lady Peveril, 
that this contumacious and rebellious race should be, for a time, 
forborne by their faithful subjects, it would be highl}^ proper that 
all the loyal liegemen should, for the present, eschew subjects of dis- 
sension or quarrel with these sons of Shiniei; which lesson of pa- 
tience he enforced by the comfortable assurance, that the}^ could not 
long abstain from their old rebellious practices; in which case, the 
royalists would stand exculpated before God and man, in gxtirpa- 
tiiig them from the face of the earth. 

The close observers of the remarkable passages of the times from 
which we draw the events of our history, have left it upon record, 
that these two several sermons, much contrary, doulrtless, to the in- 
tention of the worthy divine-s by whom they were delivered, had a 
greater effect in exasperating, than in composing, the disputes be- 
twixt the two factions. Under such evil auspices, and with corre- 


58 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


spending forebodings on the mind of Lady Peveril, the day of fes- 
tivity at length ai rived. 

By different routes, and forming each a sort of procession, as if 
the adherents of each party were desirous of exhibiting its strength 
and numbers, the two several factions approached Martindale Cas- 
tle; and so. distinct did they appear in dress, aspect, and manners, 
that it seemed as if the revelers of a bridal party, and the sad atterid- 
ants upon a funeral solemnity, were moving toward the same point 
from different quarters. 

The puritanical party was by far the fewer in numbers, for which 
two excellent reasons might be given. In the first place, they had 
enjoyed power for several years, and, of course, became unpopular 
. among the common people, never at any time attached to those, 
who, being in the immediate possession of authority, are often 
obliged to employ it in controlling their humors. Besides, the 
country people of England had, and still have, an animated attach- 
ment to field sports, and a natural unrestrained joviality of disposi- 
tion, which rendered them impatient under the severe discipline of 
■ the fanatical preachers; while they were not less naturally discon- 
tented with the military despotism of Cromwell’s Major-Generals. 
Secondly, the people were fickle as usual, and the return of the king 
had novelty in it, and was therefore popular. The side of tho 
Puritans was also deserted at this period by a numerous class of 
more thinking and prudential persons, who never forsook them till 
they became unfortunate. These sagacious personages were called 
in that age the Vt^’aiters upon Providence, and deemed it a high de- 
linquency toward Heaven if they afforded countenance to any cause 
longer than it was favored by fortune. 

But, though thus forsaken by the fickle and the selfish, a solemn 
enthusiasm, a stern and determined depth of principle, a confidence 
in the sincerity of their own motives, and the manly English pride 
which inclined them to cling to their former opinions, like the trav- 
eler in the fable to his cloak, the more strongly that the tempest blew 
around them, detained in the ranks of the Puritans many, w'^ho, if 
no longer formidable from numbers, were still so from their char- 
acter. They consisted chiefly of the middling gentry, with others 
whom industry or successful speculations in commerce or in mining 
had raised into eminence — the persons who feel most umbrage from 
the overshadowing aristocracy, and are usually the most vehement 
in defense of what they hold to be their rights. Their dress was in 
general studiously simple and unostentatious, or only remarkable by 
the contradictory affectation of extreme simplicity or carelessness. 
The dark color of their cloaks, varying from absolute black to what 
was called sad-colored — their steeple crowned hats, with their broad 
shadowy brims— their long swords, suspended by a simple strap 
around the loins, without shoulder-belt, sword-knot, plate, buckles^ 
or any of the other decorations with which the Cavaliers loved to 
adorn their trusty rapicis — the shoitness of their hair, which made 
their ears appear of disproportioned size— above all, the stern and 
gloomy gravity of their looks, announced their belonging to that 
.^class of enthusiasts, who, resolute and undismayed, had cast down 
^ the former fabric of government, and who now regarded with some- 
what more than suspicion, that which had been so unexpectedly" 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


59 


substituted in its stead. There was gloom in their countenances; 
but it was not that of dejection, far less of despair. They looked 
like veterans after a defeat, which may have checked their career 
and wounded their pride, but has left their courage undiminished. 

The melancholy, now become habitual, which overcast Major 
Bridgenorth's countenance, well qualified him to act as the chief of 
the group who now advanced from the village. When they reached 
the point by w^hich they were first to turn aside into the wood which 
surrounded the castle, they felt a momentary impression of degrada- 
tion, as if they were yielding the high road to their old and oft-de- 
feated enemies the Cavaliers. When they began to ascend the 
winding-path, which had been the daily passage of the cattle, the 
opening of the wooded glade gave them a view of the castle-ditch, 
half choked with the rubbish of the breach, and of the breach itself, 
which was made at the angle of a large squaie flanking- tower, one- 
half of which had been battered into ruins, while the other fragment 
remained in a state strangel}' shattered and precarious, and seemed 
to be tottering above the huge aperture in the wall. A stern still 
smile was exchanged among the Puritans, as the sight reminded 
them of the victories of former days. Holdfast Clegg, a millwright 
of Dcii’by, who had been himself active at the siege, pointed to the 
breach, and said, with a grim smile to Mr. Solsgrace, “ 1 little 
tnouglit, that when my own hand helped to level the cannon which 
Oliver pointed against yon tower, we should have been obliged to 
climb like foxeS up the very walls which we won by our bow and 
by our spear. Methought these malignants had then enough of 
shutting their gates and making high their horn against us.’' 

“ Be patient, my brother,” said Solsgrace; ” be patient, and let 
not thy soul be disquieted. We enter not this high place dishonor- 
ably, seeing we ascend by the gate which the Lord opened to the 
godly.” 

The words of the pastor were like a spark to gunpowder. The 
countenances of the mournful retinue suddenly expanded, and, ac- 
cepting wdiat nad fallen from him as an omen and a light from 
heaven how they were to interpret their present situation, they up- 
lifted, with one consent, one of the triumphant songs in which the 
Israelites celebrated the victories which had been vouchsafed to 
them over the heathen inhabitants of the Promised Land: 

“ Let God arise, and then his foes 
Shall turn themselves to flight. 

His enemies for fear shall run, 

And scatter out of sight ; 

“ And as wax melts before the fire, 

And wind blows smoke away, 

So in the presence of the Lord, 

The wicked shall decay. 

“ God’s army twenty thousand is. 

Of angels bright and strong. 

The Lord also in Sinai 
Is present them among. 

“Thou didst, O Lord, ascend on high. 

And captive led’st them all. 

Who, in times past, thy chosen flock 
In bondage did enthrall.” 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


60 

Th6se sounds of devotional triumpli reached the joyous band of 
the Cavaliers, who, decked in whatever pomp their repeated misfort- 
unes and impoverishment had left them, were moving toward the 
same point, though by a different road, and were filling the princi- 
pal avenue to the castle, with tiptoe mirth and revelry. The two 
parties were strongly contrasted ; for, during that period of civil dis- 
sension, the maners of the different factions distinguished them as 
completely as separate uniforms might have done. If the Puritan 
was affectedly plain in his dress, and ridiculously precise in his man- 
ners, the Cavalier often carried his love of ornament into ta^vdry 
finery, and his contempt of hypocrisy into licentious profligacy. Gay 
gallant fellows, young and old, thronged together toward the an- 
cient castle, with general and joyous manifestation of those spirits, 
which, as they had been buoyant enough to support their owmers 
during the worst of times, as they termed Oliver’s usurpation, w^ere 
now so inflated as to transport them nearly beyond the reach of so- 
ber reason. Feathers W’^aved, lace glittered, spears jingled, steeds 
caracoled; and here and there a petronel, or pistol, was fired off by 
some one, who found his own natural talents for making a noise in- 
adequate to the dignity of the occasion. Boys — for, as we said be- 
fore, the rabble were with the uppermost party, as usual — halloo’d 
and whooped, “Down with the Rump,’’ and “ Fie upon Oliver!” 
Musicah instruments, of as many different fashions as were then in 
use, played all at once, and without any regard to each other’s tune; 
and the glee of the occasion, while it reconciled the pride of the 
high-born of the party to fraternize with the general rout, derived 
an additional zest from the conscious triumph, that their exultation 
was heard by their neighbors, the crestfallen Roundheads. 

When the loud and sonorous swell of the psalm-tune, multiplied 
by all the echoes of the cliffs and ruinous halls came full upon their 
ear, as if to warn them how little they were to reckon upon the de- 
pression of their adversaries, at first it was answered with a scornful 
laugh, raised to as much height as the scoffers’ lungs would permit, 
in order that it might carry to the psalmodists the contempt of their 
auditors ; but this was a forced exertion of party spleen. There is 
something in melancholy feelings more natural to an imperfect and 
suffering state than in those of gayety, and when they are brought 
into collision, the former seldom fail to triumph. If a funeral-train 
and wedding-procession were to meet unexpectedly, it will readily be 
allowed that the mirth of the last would be speedily merged in the 
gloom of the others. But the Cavaliers, moreover, had sympathies 
of a different kind. The psalm-tune, which now came rolling on 
their ear, had been heard too often, and upon too many occasions 
had proceeded victory gained over the malign anls, to permit them,, 
even in their triumph, to hear it without emotion. There was a 
sort of pause, of which the party themselves seemed rather ashamed, 
until the silence was broken by the stout old knight, Sir Jasper 
Cranbourne, whose gallantry was so universally acknowledged, that 
he could afford, if we may use such an expression, to confess emo- 
tions, which men whose courage was in any respect liable to sus- 
picion, would have thought it imprudent to acknowledge. 

“ Adad,” said the old knight, “ may I never taste claret again, it 
that is not the very tune with which the prick-eared villains began 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


61 


their onset at 'l\^iggan-lane, where they trowled us clown like so 
many ninepins! Faith, neighbors, to say truth, and shame the 
devil, I did not like the sound ot it above "half.” 

“ If 1 thought the round-headed rogues did it in scorn of us,” 
said Dick Wildblood of the Dale, ” 1 would cudgel their psalmody 
out of their peasantly throats with this very truncheon;” amotion 
which, being seconded by old Eoger Kaine, the drunken tapster of 
the Peveril Arms in the village, might have, brought on a general 
battle, but that Sir Jasper forbade the feud. 

“ We’ll have no ranting, Dick,” said the old knight to the young 
Franklin; ” adad, man, we’ll have none, for three reasons; first, be- 
cause it would be ungentle to Lady Peveril; then, because it is 
against the king's peace; and, lastly, Dick, because if we did set on 
the psalm-singing knaves, thou mightest come by the worst, my 
boy, as has chanced to thee before.” 

‘‘ Who, 1.1 Sir Jasper!” answered Dick — “ 1 come by the worst! 
I’ll be d — d if it ever happened but in that accursed lane, where we 
had no more flank, front, or rear, than if we had been so many her- 
rings in a barrel.” 

” That was the reason, 1 fancy,” answered Sir Jasper, ” that you, 
to mend the matter, scrambled into the hedge, and stuck there, horse 
and man, till 1 beat thee through it with my leading-staff ; and 
then, instead of charging to the front, you went right-about, and 
away as fast as your feet would carry you.” 

This reminiscence produced a laugh at Dick’s expense, who was . 
known, or at least suspected, to have more tongue in his head than 
mettle in his bosom. And this sort of rallying on the part of the 
knight having fortunately abated the resentment which had begun 
to awaken in the breasts of the royalist cavalcade, farther cause for 
offense was removed, by the sudden ceasing of the sounds which they 
had been disposed to interpret into those of premeditated insult. 

This was owing to the arrival ot the Puritans at the bottom of the 
large and wide breach, which had been formerly made in the wall 
of the castle by their victorious cannon. The sight of its gaping 
heaps of rubbish, and disjointed masses of building, up which slow- 
ly winded a narrow and steep path, such as is made amongst ancient 
ruins by the rare passage of those who occasionally visit them, was 
calculated, when contrasted with the gray and solid massiveness of 
the towers and curtains which yet stood uninjured, to remind them 
of their victory over the stronghold of tjieir enemies, and how they 
had bound nobles and princes with fetters of iron. 

But feelings more suitable to the purpose of their visit to Martin- 
dale Castle, were awakened in the bosoms even of these stern sec- 
taries, when the Lady of the Castle, still in the very priine of beauty 
and of womanhood, appeared at the top of the breach with her prin- 
cipal female attendants, to receive her guests with the honor and 
courtesy becoming her invitation. She had laid aside the black 
dress which had been her sole attire for several years, and was ar- 
rayed with a splendor not unbecoming her high descent and qual- 
ity. Jewels, indeed, she had none; but her long and dark hair 
was surmounted with a cha[)let made of oak-leaves, interspersed 
with lilies; the former being the emblem of the king’s preservalion 
in the Iloyal Oak, and the latter, of his happy Kestoration. \Yhut 


62 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

rendered her presence still more interesting to those who looked on 
her, was the presence of the two children w'hom she held in either 
hand; one of whom was well known to them all to be the child of 
their leader, Major Bridgenorth, who had been restored to life and 
health by the almost maternal care of the Lady Peveril.^ 

If even the inferior persons of the party felt the healing influence 
of her presence, thus accompanied, poor Bridgenorth was almost 
overwhelmed with it. The strictness of his cast and manners per- 
mitted him not to sink on his knee, and kiss the hand which held 
his little orphan; but the deepness of his obeisance— the faltering 
tremor of his voice — and the glistening of his eye, showed a grateful 
respect for the lady whom he addressed — deeper^ and more reveren- 
tial than could have been expressed even by Persian prostration. A. 
few courteous and mild words, expressive oLthe pleasure she found 
in once more seeing her neighbors as her friends — a few kind in- 
quiries, addressed to the principal individuals among her guests, 
concerning their families and connections, completed her triumph 
over angry thoughts and dangerous recollections, and disposed men’s 
bosoms to sympathize with the purposes of the meeting. 

Even Solsgrace himself, although imagining himself bound by his 
office and duty to watch over and counteract the wiles of the 
“ Amalekitish woman,” did not escape the sympathetic infection; 
being so much struck with the marks of peace and good-will ex- 
hibited by Lady Peveril, that he immediately raised the psalm, 

“ 0 what a happy thing it is. 

And joyful, for to see 
Brethren to dwell together in 
Friendship and unity 1” 

Accepting this salutation as a mark of courtesy repaid, the Lady 
Peveril marshaled in person this party of her guests to the apart- 
ment where ample good cheer was provided for them; and had even 
the patience to remain while Master ISTehemiah Solsgrace pronounced 
a benediction of portentous length, as an introduction to the ban- 
quet. Her presence was in some measure a restraint on the worthy 
divine, whose prolusion lasted the longer, and was the more intri- 
cate and embarrassed, that he felt himself debarred from rounding 
it off by his usual alliterative petition for deliverance from Popery, 
Prelacy, and Peveril of the Peak, which had becom.e so habitual to 
him, that, after various attempts to conclude with some othei form 
of words, he found himself at last obliged to pronounce the first 
words of his usual foxmula aloud, and mutter the rest in such a 
manner' as not to be intelligible even by those who stood nearest to 
him. 

The minister’s silence was followed by all the various sounds 
which announce the onset of a hungry company on a well-furnished 
table; and at the same time gave the lady an opportunity to leave 
the apartment, and look to the accommodation of her other com- 
pany. She felt, indeed, that it was high time to do so; and that the 
royalist guests might be disposed to misapprehend, or even to resent, 
the prior attentions which she had thought it prudent to offer to the 
Puritans, 

These apprehensions were not altogether ill founded. It was in 
vain that the steward had displayed the royal standard, with its 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


65 

proud motto of Tandem Triumphans, on one of the great towers 
which flanked the main entrance of the Castle; while, from the 
other, floated the banner of Peveril of the Peak, under which many 
of those who now approached had fought during all the vicissitudes 
of civil war. It was in vain he repeated his clamorous “ Welcome, 
noble Cavaliers! welcome, generous gentlemen!” There was a slight 
murmur amongst them, that their welcome ought to have come 
from the mouth of the colonel’s lady— not from that of a menial. 
Sir Jasper Cranbourne, who had sense as well as spirit and cour- 
age, and who was aware of his fair cousin’s motives, having; been 
indeed consulted by her upon all the arrangements which she had 
adopted, saw matters were in such a state that no time ought to be 
lost in conducting the guests to the banqueting apartment, where a 
fortunate diversion from all these topics of rising discontent might 
be made, at the expense of the good cheer of all sorts, which the 
lady’s care had so liberally provided. 

The stratagem of the old soldier succeeded in its utmost extent. 
He assumed the great oaken-chair usually occupied by the steward 
at his audits; and Dr. Dummerar having pronounced a brief Latin 
benediction (which was not the less esteemed by the hearers that 
none of them understood it). Sir Jasper exhorted the company to- 
whet their appetites to the dinner by a brimming cup to his maj- 
esty’s health, filled as high and as deep as their goblets would per- 
mit. In a moment all was bustle, with the clang of wine-cups and 
of flagons. In another moment the guests were on their feet like 
so many statues, all hushed as death, but with eyes glancing with 
expectation, and hands outstretched, which displayed their loyal 
brimmers. The voice of Sir Jasper, clear, sonorous, and emphatic 
as the sound of his war-trumpet, announced the health of the re- 
stored monarch, hastily echoed back by the assemblage, impatient to 
render jts due homage. Another brief pause was filled by the drain- 
ing of their cups, and the mustering breath to join in a shout so 
loud, that not only the rafters of the old hall trembled while they 
echoed it back, but the garlands of oaken boughs and flowers with 
which they were decorated, waved wildly, and rustled as if agitated 
by a sudden whirhvind. This rite observed, the company proceeded 
to assail the good cheer with which the table groaned, animated as 
they were to the attack both by mirth and melody, for they^ were 
attended by all the minstrels of the district, who, like the Episcopal 
"clergy, had been put to silence during the reign of the self entitled 
saints of the Commonwealth. The social occupation of good eating 
and drinking, the exchange of pledges betwixt old neighbors who 
had been fellow-soldiers in the moment of resistance— fellow-suffer- 
ers in the time of depression and subjugation, and were now part- - 
ners in the same general subject of congratulation, soon wiped from 
their memory the trifling cause of complaint, which in the minds of 
some had darkened the festivity of the day; so that when the Lady 
Peveril walked into the hall, accompanied as before with the chil- 
dren and her female attendants, she was welcomed with the accla- 
mations due to the mistress of the banquet and of the castle— the 
dame of the noble knight, who had led most of them to battle with 
an undaunted and persevering valor, which was worthy of better 
success. 


PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


64 

Her address to them was brief and matronly, yet spoken witl; so 
mucli feeling as found its way to every bosom. Bhe apologized tor 
the lateness of her personal welcome, by reminding them that there 
were then present in Martindale Castle that day, persons whom re- 
cent happy events had converted from enemies into friends, but on 
whom the latter character was so recently imposed, that she dared 
not neglect with them any point of ceremonial. But those whom 
she now addressed, were the best, the dearest, the most faithful 
friends of her husband’s house, to whom and to their valor Peveril 
had not only owed those successes, which had given them and him 
fame during the late unhappy times, but to whose courage she in 
particular had owed the preservation of tiieir leader’s life, even when 
it could not avert defeat. A. word or two of heartfelt congratulation 
on the happy restoration of the royal line and authority, completed 
all which she had boldness to add, and, bowing gracefully round 
her, she lifted a cup to her lips as if to welcome her guests. 

There still remained, and especially amongst the old Cavaliers of 
the period, some glimmering of that spirit which inspired Froissart, 
when he declares that a knight hath double courage at need, when 
animated by the looks and words of a beautiful and virtuous woman. 
It was not until the reign which was commencing at the moment we 
are treating of, that the unbounded license of the age, introducing a 
general course of profligacy, degraded the female sex into mere serv- 
ants^^ pleasure, and, in so doing, deprived society of that noble tone 
of f^ng toward the sex, which, (K)n)riC^ri?d:''‘aS a spur to raise the 
clear spirit, ” is superior to eveiy other impulse, save those of re- 
ligion and patriotism. The beams of the ancient hall of Martindale 
Castle instantly rung with a shout louder and shriller than that at 
which they had so lately trembled, and the names of the Knight of 
the Peak and his lady were proclaimed amid waving of caps and hats 
and universal wishes* for their health and happiness. 

Under tkese auspices the Lady Peveril glided from the hall, and 
left free space for the revelry of the evening. 

That of the Cavaliers may be easily conceived, since it had the 
usual accompaniments of singing, jesting, quaffing of healths, and 
playing of tunes, which have in almost every age and quarter of the 
world been the accompaniments of festive cheer. The enjoyment of 
the Puritans were of a different and less noisy character. They 
neither sung, jested, heard' music, nor drank healths; and yet they 
seemed not the less, in their own phrase, to enjoy the creature-com- 
forts which the frailty of humanity rendered grateful to their out- 
ward man. Old Whitaker even protested, that, though much the 
smaller party in point of numbers, tl>ey discussed nearly as much 
sack and claret as his own more jovial associates. But those who 
considered the steward’s prdjudices, were inclined to think, that, in 
order to produce such a result, he must have thrown in his own by- 
drinkings— no inconsiderable item— to the sum total of the Presby- 
terian potations. 

Without adopting such a partial and scandalous report, we shall 
only say, that on this occasion, as on most others, the rareness of 
indulgence promoted the sense of enjoyment, and that those who 
made abstinence, oratleastmodeiation, a point of religious principle, 
enjoyed their social meeting the better that such opportunities rarely 


PEVERTL OF THE PEAK. 


Co 

presented themselves. If they did not actually drink each other’s 
healths, they at least showed, by looking and nodding to each other 
as they raised their glasses, that they all were sharing the same fes- 
tive gratification of the appetite, and felt it enhanced, because it was 
. at the same time enjoyed by their friends and neighbors. Religion, 
*as it was the principal topic of their thoughts, became also the chief 
subject of their conversation, and as they sat together in small sepa- 
rate knots, they discussed doctrinal and" metaphysical points of l^e 
lief, balanced the merits of various preachers, compared the creeds 
of contending sects, and fortified bj’- scriptural quotations those winch 
they favored. Some contests arose in the course of tliese debates, 
which might have proceeded further than was seemly, but for the 
cautious interference of ]\lajor Bridgenorlh. He suppressed also, in 
the very bud, a dispute between Gaifer Hodgson of Charnelycot and 
the Reverend IMr. Solsgrace, upon the tender subject of lay-preaching 
and la}'- ministering; nor did bethink it altogether prudent or decent 
to indulge the wislies of some of the warmer enllmsiasts of the party, 
who felt disposed to make the rest partakers of their gifts in extem- 
poraneous prayer and exposition. These were absurdities that be- 
longed to the time, which, however, the major had sense enough to 
l^erceive were unfitted, whether the offspring of hypocrisy or en- 
thusiasm, for the present time and place. 

The major was also instrumental in breaking up the party at an 
early and decorous hour, so that they left the Castle long before their 
rivals, the Cavaliers, had reached the spring-tide of their merriment; 
an arrangement which afforded the greatest satisfaction to the lady, 
w'ho dreaded the consequences which might not improbably have 
taken' place, had both parties met at the same period and point of 
retreat. 

It -was near midnight ere the greater part of the Cavaliers, mean- 
ing such as were able to effect their departure without assistance, 
withdrew to the village of Martindale-Moultrassie, with the benefit 
of the broad moon to prevent the chance of accidents. Their shouts, 
and the burden of the roaring chorus of — 

“ The King shall enjoy his own again !” 

were heard with no small pleasure by the lady, heartily glad that 
the riot of the day was over without the occurrence of any unpleas- 
ing accident. The rejoicing was not, however, entirely ended; for 
ihe elevated Cavaliers, finding some of the villagers still on foot 
around a bonfire on the street, stiuck merrily in with them — sent to 
Roger Raine of the Peveril Arms, the loyal publican whom we have 
already mentioned, for two tubs of merry stii^o (as it was termed), 
and leint their own powerful assistance at the chitting it off to the 
health of the king and the loyal General IMonk. Their shouts for a 
long time disturbed, and even alarmed the little village; but no en- 
thusiasm is able to withstand for ever the natural consequences of 
late hours, and potations pottle-deep. The tumult of the exulting 
royalists at last sunk into silence, and the moon and the owl were left 
in undisturbed sovereignty over the old tower of the village church, 
which, rising white above a circle of knotty oaks, was tenanted by 
the bird, and silvered by the planet.* 

* See Note A— Cavaliers and Roundheads. 

3 


66 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


CHAPTER V. 

’Twas when they raised, ’mid sap and siege, 

The banners of their rightful liege, 

At their she-captain’s call. 

Who, miracle of womankind 
Lent mettle to the meanest hind 
That mann’d her castle wall. ^ 

William S. Rd^. 

On the moining succeeding the feast, the Lady Peveril, fatiguecS 
with the exertions and the apprehensions of the former day, kept her 
apartments for two or three hours later than her own active habits, 
and the matutinal custom of the time, rendered usual. Meanwhile, 
Mistress Ellesmere, a person of great trust in the family, and 
who assumed much authority in her mistress’s absence, laid her 
orders upon Deborah, the governante, immediately to carry the chil- 
dren to their airing in the park, and not to let any one enter the 
gilded chamber, which was usually their sporting-place. Deborafi, 
who. often rebelled, and sometimes successfully, against the deputed 
authority of Ellesmere, privately resolved that it was about to rain, 
and that the gilded chamber was a more suitable place for the ( hil- 
dren’s exercise than the wet grass of the park on a raw morning. 

But a woman’s brain is sometimes as inconstant as a popular 
assembly; and presently after she had voted the morning was like to 
be rainy, and that the gilded chamber was the fittest play-room for 
the children. Mistress Deborah came to the somewhat inconsistent 
resolution, that the park was the fittest place for her own morning^ 
walk. It is certain, that during the unrestrained joviality of the- 
preceding evening, she had dancki till midnight with Lance Outram, 
the park-keeper; but how far the seeing him just pass the window in 
his woodland trim, with a feather in his hat, and a crossbow under 
his arm, influenced the discrepancy of the opinions Mrs. Deborah 
formed concerning the weather, we are far from presuming to guess. 
It is enough for us, that, so soon as Mistress Ellesmere’s back was 
turned. Mistress Deborah carried the children into the gilded cham- 
ber, not without a strict charge (for we must do her justice)^to Mas- 
ter . I ulian to take care of his little wife. Mistress Alice; and then, 
having taken so satisfactory a precaution, she herself glided into the 
park b}’- the glass-door of the still-room, which Avas nearly opposite 
to the great breach. 

The gilded chamber in which the children were, by this arrange- 
ment, left to amuse themselves, wdthout belter guardianship than 
what Julian’s manhood afforded, w^as a large apartment, hung wdth 
stamped Spanish leather, curiously gilded, representing, in a manner 
now obsolete, but far from unpleasing, a series of tilts and combats 
betwixt the Saracens of Grenada, and the Spaniards under the com- 
mand of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, during that memorable 
siege, wdiich was terminated by the overthrow of the last fragments 
of the Moorish empire in Spain. 

The little Julian was cgreering about the room for the amusement 
of his infant friend, as well as his own, mimicking with a reed the 


PEVERTL OF TIFE PEAK. 6*? 

menacing attitude of the Abencerrages and Zegris engaged in the 
Eastern sport of hurling the jertd, or javelin; and at times sitting 
down beside her, and caressing her into silence and good- humor, 
when the petulant or timid child chose to become tired of remaining 
an inactive spectator of his boisterous sport; when, on a sudden, he 
observed one of the paneled compartments of the leather hangings 
slide apart, so as to show a fair hand, with its fingers resting upon its 
edge, prepared, rt would seem, to push it still further back. . Julian 
was much surprised, and somewhat frightened, at what he witnessed, 
for the tales of the nrrrsery had strongly impressed on his mind the 
terrors of the invisible world. Yet, naturally bold and high-spirited, 
the little champion placed himself beside his defenseless sister, con- 
tinuing to brandish his weapon in her defense, as boldly as he had 
himself been an Abencerrage of Grenada. 

The panel, on which his eycAvas fixed, gradually continued to slide 
back, and display more and more the form to which the hand apper- 
tained, until, in the dark aperture which was disclosed, the children 
saw the figure of a lady in a mourning dress, past the meridian of 
life, but whose countenance still retained traces of great beauty, 
although the predominant character both of her features and person 
was an air of almost royal dignity. After pausing a moment on the 
threshold of the portal which she had thus unexpectedly disclosed, 
and looking with some surprise at the children, whom she had not 
probably observed wdiile engaged Avith the management of the panel, 
the stranger stepped into the apartment, and the panel, upon a touch - 
of a spring, closed behind her so suddenly'-, that d ulian almost doubt- 
ed it had ever been open, and began to apprehend that the Avhole ap- 
parition had been a delusion.^ 

The stately lady, however, advanced to him, and said, “ Are not 
you the little Pev'eril?'’ 

“ Yes',” said the boy, reddening, not altogether without a juvenile 
feeling of that rule of chivalry Avrdch forbade any one to disoAvn his 
name, Avdiatever danger might be annexed to the avow^al of it. 

“ Then,” said the stately stranger, “go to your mother’s room, 
iind tell her to come instantly to speak with me.” 

“ 1 wo’not,” said the little Julian. 

“ How?” said the lady — “ so young apd so disobedient? — but you 
-do not follow the fashion of the time. AVhy Avill 3’ou not go, my 
pretty boy, when 1 ask it of you as a favor?” 

“lAA'ould go, madam,” said the boy, “ but ’’—and he stopped 
■short, still drawing back as the lady advanced on him, but still hold- 
ing by the hand Alice Bridgeuorth, wdio, too young to understand 
the nature of the dialogue, clung, trembling, to her companion. 

The stranger saAv his embarrassment, smiled, and remained stand- 
ing fast, while she asked the child once more, “ AYhat are j^ou afraid 
of, mj’’ bi’ave boy— and Avhy should you not go to 3'our mother on 
m3" errand?” 

“ Because,” ansAvered .Julian, firmly, “if Igo, little Alice must 
stay alone with 3"ou. ” ‘ ' ’ 

“ You are a gallant felloAv,” said the lady, “ and will not disgrace 
^our blood, which never left the weak Avithout protection.” 

* See Note Concealment of the Countess of Derby. 


68 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


The boy understood her not, and still gazed with anxious appre- 
hension tirst on her who addressed him, and then upon his little* 
companion, whose e3'es, with the vacant glance of inf ancy, wandered 
from the figure of the lady to that of her companion and protector, 
and at length, infected by a portion of the fear which the latter’s- 
magnanimous efforts could not entirely conceal, she flew into- 
Julian’s arms, and, clinging to him, greatly augmented his alarm, 
and by screaming aloud, rendered it very difficult for him to avoid 
the sympathetic fear which impelled him to do the same. 

There was something in the manner and bearing of this unexpected 
inmate which might justify awe at least, if not fear, when joined to 
the singular and mysterious mode in which she had made her ap- 
pearance. Her dress was not remarkable, being the hood and female 
riding attire of the time, such as was worn by the inferior class of 
gentlewomen; but her black hair was very long, and several locks, 
having escaped from under her hood, hung down disheveled on her 
neck and shoulders. Her eyes were deep black, keen, and piercing, 
and her features had something of a foreign expression. When sh^e 
spoke, her language was marked by a slight foreign accent, although, 
in construction, it was pure English. Her slightest tone and gesture 
had the air of one accustomed to command and to be obeyed; the 
recollection of which probably suggested to Julian the apology he 
afterward made for being frightened, that he took the stranger for 
an “ enchanted queen.” 

While the stranger lady and the children thus confronted e^h 
other, two persons entered almost at the same instant, but fmm 
different doors, whose haste showed that they had been alarmed by 
the screams of the latter. * 

The first was Major Biidgenortli, whose ears had been alarmed. 
witli the cries of his child as ne entered the hall, which corresponded 
with what was called the gilded chamber. His intention had been 
to remain in the more public apartment, until the Lady Pevefil 
should make her appearance, with the good-natured purpose of 
assuring her that the preceding day of tumult had passed in every re- 
spect agreeably to his friends, and without any of those alarming 
consequences which might have been apprehended from a collision 
betwixt the parties. But when it is considered how severel}^ he had 
been agitated by apprehensions for his child’s safety and health, ton 
well justified by the fate of those who had preceded her, it will not 
be thought surprising that the infantine screams of Alice induced him 
to break through the barriers of form, and intrude further into the 
interior of the house than a sense of strict propriety might have war- 
ranted. 

He burst into the gilded chamber, therefore, by a side door and 
narrow passage, which communicated betwixt that apartment and 
the hall, and, snatching the child up in his arms, endeavored, by a 
thousand caresses, to stifle the screams which burst yet more violently 
from the little girl, on beholding herself in the arms of one to whose 
voice and manner she was, but for one brief interview, an entire 
stranger. 

Of course, Alice’s shrieks were redoubled, and seconded by those 
of Julian Peveril, who, on the appearance of this second iiitiuder, ^ 
was frightened into resignation of every more manly idea of rescue 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 69 

than that which consisted in invoking assistance at the very top of 
his lungs. 

Alarmed by this noise, which in half a minute became very clam- 
orous, Lady Peveril, with whose apartment the gilded chamber was 
connected by a private door of communication opening into her 
wardrobe, entered on the scene. The instant she. appeared, the little 
Alice, extricating herself from the grasp of her father, ran toward 
her protectress, and when she had once taken hold of her skirts, not 
only became silent, but turned her large bluee.yes, in which the tears 
were still glistening, with a look of wonder rather than alarm, toward 
the strange lady. Julian manfully brandished his reed, a weapon 
which he had never parted Avith during the ydiole alarm, and stood 
prepared to assist his mother if there should be danger in the en- 
counter betwixt her and tlie stranger. 

In fact, it might have puzzled an older person to account for the 
sudden and confused pause which the Lady Peveril made, as she 
gazed on her unexpected guest, as it dubious whether she did or did 
not recognize, in her still beautiful though wasted and emaciated 
features, a countenance which she had known well under far differ- 
ent circumstances. 

The stranger seemed to understand her cause of hesitation, for she 
said in that heart-thrilling voice which was peculiarly her own — 

“ Time and misfortune have changed me much, Margaret — that 
every mil ror tells me — yet methinks, Margaret Stanley might still 
have known Charlotte de la Tremouille.” 

The Lady Peveril was little in the custom of giving way to sudden 
emotion, but in the present case she threw herself on her knees in a 
rapture of mingled joy, and grief, and, half embiacing those of the 
stranger, exclaimed, in broken language — 

“ My kind, my noble benefactress— the princely Countess of Derby 
— the royal Queen in Man — could 1 doubt your voice, your features, 
for a moment— oh, forgive, forgive me!” 

The countess raisedlhe suppliant kinswoman of her husband’s 
house, with all the grace of one accustomed from early birth to re- 
ceive homage and to grant protection. She kissed the Lady PeveriTs- 
forehead, and passed her hand in a caressing manner over her face 
as she said — 

” You too are changed, my fair cousin, but it is a change becomes 
you, from a pretty and timid maiden to a sage and comely matron. 
But my own memory, which i once held a good one, has failed me 
strangely, if this gentleman be Sir Geoffrey Peveril.” 

” A kind and good neighbor onl}'-, madam,” said Lady Peveril; 

Sir Geoffrey is at Court.” 

“ 1 understood so much,” said the Countess of Derby, “ when I 
arrived here last night.” 

” How, madam!” said Lady Peveril—” did you arrive at Martin- 
dale Castle — at the house of Margaret Stanley, where you have such 
right to command, and did not announce your presence to her?” 

” Oh, 1 know you are a dutiful subject, Margaret,” answered the 
countess, ” though it be in these days a rare character — but it was our 
pleasure,” she ated with a smile, ” to travel incoguito—and finding 
you engaged in general hospitality, we desired not to disturb you 
with our loyal presence.” 


70 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


^ “ But how and where were’ you lodged, madam?” said Lady 

Peveril; ” or why should you have kept secret a visit which would, 
if made, have augmented tentold the happiness of every true heart 
that rejoiced here yesterday?” 

“My lodging was well cared for by Ellesmere — your Ellesmere 
now^ as she was formerly mine — she has acted as quarter-master ere 
now , you know, and on a broader scale; you must excuse her — she 
had my positive order to lodge me in the most secret part of your 
Castle *”— (here she pointed to the sliding panel)— ” she obeyed orders 
in that, and 1 suppose also in sending you now hither.” 

” Indeed, 1 have not yet seen her,” said the lady, ” and therefore 
was totally ignorant of ^ visit so joyful, so surprising,” 

” And l,”"said the countess, ” w^as equally surprised to find none 
but these beautiful children in the apartment where 1 thought 1 heard 
you moving. Our Ellesmere has become silly— your good-nature has 
spoiled her— she has forgotten the discipline she learned under me.” 

” 1 saw her run through the wood,” said Lady Peveril, after a 
moment’s recollection, ‘‘ undoubted!}’’ to seek the person who has 
charge of the chilaren, in order to remove them.” 

‘‘ Your own darlings, 1 doubt not,” said the countess, looking at 
the children. ” Margaret, Providence has blessed you,” 

“That is my sou,” said Lady Peveril, pointing to Julian, who 
stood devouring their discourse with greedy ear; ” tiro little girl — 1 
may call mine too.” Major Bridgenorth, who had in the meantime 
again taken up his infant, and was engaged in caressing it, set it 
down as the Countess of Derby spoke, sighed deeply, and walked 
toward the oriel window. He was well aware that the ordinary 
rules of courtesy wouid have rendered it proper that he should with- 
draw entirely, or at least offer to do so; but he was not a man of 
ceremonious politeness, and he had a particular interest in the sub- 
jects on which the countess’s discourse was likely to turn, which in- 
duced him to dispense with ceremony. The ladies seemed indeed 
scarce to notice his presence. The countess had now assumed a 
chair, and motioned to the Lady Peveril to sit upon a stool which 
was placed by her side. “We will have old times once more, 
though there is here no roaring of rebel guns to drive you to take 
refuge at my side, and almost in my pocket,” 

“ I have a gun, madam,” said little Julian, “ and the park-keeper 
is to teach me how to fire it next year.” 

“1 will list you for my soldier, then,” said the countess. 

“ Ladies have no soldiers,” said the boy, looking wistfully at 
her. 

“ He has the true masculine contempt of our frail sex, 1 see,” 
said the countess; “ it is born with the insolent varlets of mankind, 
and shows itself so soon as they are out of their long clothes. Did 
Ellesmere never tell you of Latham-House and Charlotte of Derby, 
my little master?” 

“ A thousand thousand times, ’’said the boy, coloring; “ and how 
the Queen of Man defended it six weeks against three thousand 
Roundheads, under Rogue Harrison the butcher.” 

“ It was your mother defended Latham-House,” said the countess, 
“ not I, my little soldier. Hadst thou been there, thou hadst been 
the best captain ot the three. ” - . 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 71 

Do not saj" so, madam,” said the boy, “ for mamma would not 
touch a gun for all the universe. ” 

” Not 1, indeed, Julian,” said his mother; ” there I was for cer- 
tain, but as useless a part of the garrison — ” 

” You forget,” said the countess, ” you nursed our hospital, and 
made lint tor the soldiers’ wounds.” 

“But did not papa come to help you?” said Julian. 

“ Papa came at last,” said the countess, ” and so did Prince 
Rupert — but not, 1 think, till they were both heartily wished for. 
Do you remember that morning, JMargaret, when the round-headed 
knaves, that kept us pent up so long, retreated without bag or bag- 
gage, at the first glance of the prince’s standards appearing on the 
hili— and how you took every high-crested captain you saw for 
Peveril of the Peak, that had been your partner three months before 
at the queen’s mask? Nay, never blush for the thought of it — it 
was an honest affection— and though it was the music of trumpets 
that accompanied you both to the old chapel, which was almost en- 
tirely ruined by the enemy’s bullets; and though Prince Rupert, 
when he gave you away at the altar, was clad in buff and bandoleer, 
with pistols in his belt, yet 1 trust these warlike signs were no type 
of future discord?” 

” Heaven has been kind to me,” said Lady Peveril, ” in blessing 
me with an affectionate husband.” 

“ And in preserving him to you,” said the countess, with a deep 
sigh; ‘‘ while mine, ahis! sealed with his blood his devotion to his 
king *— Oh, had be lived to see this day!” 

‘‘Alas! alas! that he was not permitted!” answered Lady Pev- 
eril; ‘‘ how had that brave and noble earl rejoiced in the unhoped- 
for redemption of our captivity!” 

The countess looked on Lady Peveril with an air of surprise. 

” Thou hast not then heard, cousin, how it stands with our house? 
How indeed had my noble lord wondered had he been told that 
the very monarch for whom he had laid dowm his noble life on the 
scaffold at Bolton-le-Moor, should make it his first act of restored 
monarchy to complete the destruction of our property, already well- 
nigh ruined in the royal cause, and to persecute me his widow!” 

‘ ‘ You astonish me, madam!” said the Lady Peveril. ‘‘It can- 
not be that you — Ihat you, the wife of the gallant, the faithful, the 
murdered earl — you. Countess of Derby, and Queen in Man — 5 'ou, 
who took on you even the character of a soldier, and seemed a man 
when so many men proved women — that you sLould sustain evil 
from the event which has fulfilled— exceeded— the hopes of every 
faithful subject — it cannot be!” 

“ Thou art as'^imple, 1 see, in this world’s knowledge as ever, my 
fair cousin,” answeied the countess. ” This restoration, which has 
given others security, has placed me in danger- this change which 
relieved* other royalists, scarce less zealous, 1 presume to think, than 
1 — has sent me here a fugitive, and in concealment, to beg shelter 
and assistance from you, fair cousin. ’ 

‘‘ From me,” answered the Lady Peveril — ‘‘ from me, whose 

* The Earl of Derby and King in Man was behended at Bolton on-the-Moors, 
after having been made prisoner in a previous swinnish in Wiggan-lane. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


72 

youth your kindness sheltered— from the wife of Peveril, your gal- 
lant lord’s companion in arms — 5 "ou have a right to command every 
thing; but, alas! that you should need such assistance as I can ren- 
der— forgive me, but 'it seems like some ill-omened vision of the 
night— 1 listen to your words, as if 1 hoped to be relieved from their 
painful import by awaking.” 

” It is indeed a dream — a vision,” said the Countess of Derby; 
“ but it meeds no seer to read it — the explanation hath been long 
since given— Put not youi faith in princes. I can soon remove your 
surprise. This gentleman, your friend, is doubtless honest?'^ 

The Lady Peveril well knew that the Cavaliers, like other factions, 
usurped to themselves the exclusive denomination of the honest 
party, and she felt some difficulty in explaining that her visitor was 
not honest in that sense of the word. 

” Had we not better retire, madam,” she said to the countess, ris- 
ing, as it in order to attend her. But the countess retained her seat. 

“Itw'as but a question of habit,” she said; “the gentleman’s 
principles are nothing to me, for what 1 have to tell you is widely 
blazed, and 1 care not who hears my share of it. You rememl'er — 
you must have heard, for 1 think Margaret Stanley would not be in- 
different to my fate— that after my husband’s murder at Bolton I 
took up the standard which he never dropped until his death, and 
displayed it with my own hand in our Sovereignty of Man?” 

“ I did indeed Hear so, madam,” said the Laay Peveril; “ and 
that you had bidden a bold defiance to the rebel government, even 
after all other parts of Britain had submitted to them. My husband. 
Sir Geoffrey, designed at one time to have gone to your assistance, 
with some 'few followers; but w^e learned that the island was ren- 
dered to the parliament party, and that you, dearest lady, were 
thrown ini o prison. ’ ’ 

“But you heard not,” said the countess, “how that disaster 
befell me. Margaret, 1 would have held out that island against the 
knaves as long as the sea continued to flow around it. Till the 
shoals which surround it had become safe anchorage — till its preci- 
pices had melted beneath the sunshine— till of all its strong abodes 
and castles, not one stone remained upon another — would 1 have de- 
fended against these villainous hypocritical rebels my dear hus- 
band’s hereditary dominion. The little kingdom of -Man should 
have been yielded only when not an arm was left to wdeld a sword, 
not a finger to draw a trigger in its defense. But treachery did what 
force could never have done. When we had foiled various attempts 
upon the island by open force— treason accomplished what Blake 
and Larvson, with their floating castles, had found too hazardous an 
enterprise— a base rebel, whom we had nursed in our owm bosoms, 
betrayed us to the enemy. This wretch was named Christian—” 

jffajor Bridgenorth started and turned towaid the speaker, but in- 
stantly seemed to recollect himself, and again averted his face. The 
countess proceeded, without noticing the interruption which, how- 
ever, rather surprised Lady Peveril, wdio w^as acquainted with her 
neighbor’s general habils of indifference and apathy, and therefore 
the more surprised at his testifying such sudden symptoms of inter- 
est. She w'ould once again have mo\’yd the countess to retire to 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 73 

another apartment, but Lady Derby proceeded with too much vehe- 
mence to endure interruption. 

“ This Cliristian, ” she said, “ had eat of my lord his sovereign’s 
bread, and drunk of his cup, even from childhood— for his fathers 
had been faithful servants to the lioust; of 3Ian and Derbv. He 
himself had foudit bravely by my husband’s side, and enjoyed all 
his confidence; and when my princely earl was martvred by the 
rebels, he recommended to me, amongst other instructions com- 
municated in the last message 1 received from him, to continue my 
confidence in Christian’s fidelity. 1 obeyed, although 1 never loved 
the man. He was cold and phlegmatic, and utterly devoid of that 
sacred fire which is the incentive to noble deeds, suspected, too, of 
leaning to the cold metaphysics of Calvinistic subtlety. But he was 
brave, wise, and experienced, and, as the event proved, possessed 
but too much interest with the islanders. When these rude people 
saw themselves without hope of relief, and pressed by a blockade, 
which brought want and disease into their island, they began to fall 
off from the faith which they had hitherto. shown.” 

“What!” said the Lady Peveril, “could they forget what was 
due to the widow of their benefactor — she who had shared with 
the generous Derby the task of bettering their condition?” 

“ Do not blame them,” said the countess; ” the rude herd acted 
but according to their kind — in present distress they forgot former 
benefits, and, nursed in their earthen hovels, with spirits suited to 
their dwellings, they were incapable of feeling the glory which is 
attached to constancy in suffering. But that Christian should have 
headed their revolt — that he, born a gentleman, and bred under my 
murdered Derby’s own care in all that was chivalrous and noble — 
that he should have forgotten a hundred benefits — why do 1 talk of 
benefits? — that he should have forgotten that kindly intercourse which 
binds man to man far more than the reciprocity of obligation— that 
he should have headed the ruffians who broke suddenly into my 
apartment— immured me with my infants in one of my own castles, 
and assumed or usurped the tyranny of the island — that this should 
have been done by William Christian, my vassal, my servant, my 
friend, was a deed of ungrateful treachery, which even this age of 
treason will scarcely parallel!” 

“ And you were then imprisoned,” said the Lady Peveril, “ and 
in your own sovereignty?” 

“For more than seven years 1 have endured strict captivity,” 
said the countess. “ 1 was indeed offered my libert}’^, and even 
some means of support, if 1 would have consented to leave the 
island, and pledge my word that 1 would not endeavor to repossess 
my son in his father’s rights. But they little knew the princely 
house from which 1 spring— and as little the royal house of Stanley 
which 1 uphold, who hoped to humble Charlotte of Tremouille into 
so Case a composition. I would rather have starved in the darkest 
and lowest vault of Bushin Castle, than have consented to aught 
which might diminish in one hair’s breadth the right of my son over 
his father’s sovereignty!” 

“ And could not your firmness, in a case where hope seemed lost, 
induce them to be generous and dismiss you without conditions?” 


74 PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 

“They knew me better than thou dost, wench,” answered the 
countess; “ once at liberty, 1 had not been long without the means 
of disturbing their usurpation, and Christian would have as soon 
uncaged a lioness to combat with, as have given me the slightest 
power ot returning to the struggle with him. But time had liberty 
and revenge in store — 1 had still friends and partisans in the island, 
though they were compelled to give way to the storm. Even among 
the islanders at large, most had been disappointed in the effects 
which they expected from the change of power. They were loaded 
with exactions by their new masters, then’ privileges were abridged, 
and their immunities abolished, under the pretext of reducing them 
to the same condition with the other subjects ot the pretended re- 
public. When the news arrived of the changes which were current 
in Britain, these sentiments were privately comiirunicated to me. 
Calcott and others acted with great zeal and fidelit}^; and a rising, 
effected as suddenly and effectually as that which had made me a 
captive, placed me at liberty and in possession of the sovereignty of 
Man, as regent for rny son, the yorrthful Earl of Derby, Do yoir 
think Tenjoyed that sovereignty long without doing justice on that 
trartor Christian?” 

“ Dow, madam,” said Lady Peveril, who, thoirgh she knew the 
high and ambitious spirit of the countess, scarce anticipated the ex- 
tremities to which it was capable ot hurrying her — ‘‘ Have you im- 
prisoned Christian?” 

“Ay, wench— in that sure prison which felon never breaks 
from,” answered the countess. 

Bridgenorth, who had insensibl}’ approached them, and was listen- 
ing with an agony ot interest which he was rrnable any longer to 
suppress, broke in witli the stern exclamation — 

‘‘ Lady, 1 trust you have not dared — ” 

The countess interrupted him in her turn. 

” 1 know not who you are who question— and you know not me 
when 3 ^ou speak to me of that which I dare, or dare not, do. But 
you seem interested in the fate of this Christian, and you shall hear 
it. 1 was no sooner placed in possession of my rightful power, than 
1 ordered the dempster ot the island to hold irpon the traitor a High 
Court of Justice, with all the formalities of the isle, as prescribed in 
its oldest records. The court was held in the open air, before the 
dempster and the keys of the island, assembled under the vaulted 
cope of heaven, and seated on the terrace of the Zonwald Hill, where 
ot old Druid and Scald held their courts ot judgment. The crimi- 
nal was heard at length in his own defense, which amounted to 
little more than those specious allegations of public consideiation, 
which are ever used to color the ugly front ot treason. He was fully 
convicted of his crime, and he received the doom of a traitor.” 

“ But which, 1 trust, is not yet executed?” said Lady Peveril, 
not without an involuntaiy shudder. 

” You are a fool, Margaret,” said the countess, sharply; “ think 
you 1 delayed such an act of justice, until some wretched intrigues 
of the new English Court might have prompted their interference? 
Ko, weuch— he passed from the judgment-seat to the place of execu- 
tion, with no further delay than sniglit be necessary for his soul’s 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 75. 

sake. He was shot to death by a file ot musketeers in the common 
place ot execution, called Eiango-hill.'’ * 

Bridgenorth clasped his bauds together, wrung them, and groaned 
bitterly. 

“ As you seem interested for this criminal,” added the countess, 
addressing Bridgenorth, “ 1 do him but justice in repeating to you, 
that his death was firm and manly, becoming the general tenor of 
his life, which, but for that gross act of traitorous ingratitude, had 
been fair and honorable. But what of that? The hypocrite is a 
saint, and the false traitor a man ot honor, till opportunity, that 
faithful touchstone, proves theii metal to be base.” 

“ It is false, w^oman — it is false!” said Bridgenorth, no longer 
suppressing his indignation. 

” 'What means this bearing. Master Bridgenorth?” said Lady 
Peveril, much surprised. ” What is this Christian to you, that you 
should insult the Countess of Derby under my roof?” 

” Speak not to me of countesses and of ceremonies,” said Bridge- 
north; ” grief and anger leave me no leisure for idle observances, to 
humor the vanity of overgrown children. O Christian-— worl by, 
well worthy, of the name thou didst bear! My friend— my brother 
— the brother of my blessed Alice-- the only friend of my desolate 
estate! art thou then cruelly murdered by a female fury,' who, but 
for thee, had deservedly paid with her own blood that of God’s 
saints, which she, as well as her tyrant husband, had spilled like 
water! Yes, cruel murderess!” he continued, addressing the count- 
ess, “ he whom thou hast butchered in thy insane vengeance, sacri- 
ficed for many a year the dictates of his own conscience to the inter- 
est of thy family, and did not desert it till thy frantic zeal for roy- 
alty had well-nigh brought to utter perdition the little community 
in which he was born. Even in confining thee, he acted but as the 
friends of the madman, who bind him with iron for his own pres- 
ervation ; and for thee, as 1 can bear witness, he was the only bar- 
rier between thee and the wrath of the Commons of England; and 
but for his earnest remonstrances, thou hadst suffered the penalty of 
thy malignancy, even like the wicked wife of Ahab.” 

‘‘ Master Bridgenorth,” said Lady Peveril, ” I will allow for your 
impatience upon hearing these unpleasing tidings ; but there is 
neither use nor propriety in further urging this question. If in your 
grief you forget other restraints, 1 pray you to remember that the 
countess is my guest and kinswoman, and is under such protection 
as 1 can afford her. 1 beseech you, in simple courtesy, to withdraw, 
as what must needs be the best and most becoming course in these 
trying circumstances.” 

“Nay, let him remain,” said the countess, regarding him with 
composure, not unmingled with triumph; ”1 would not have it 
otherwise; 1 would not that my revenge should be summed up in 
the stinted gratification which Christian’s death hath afforded. This 
man’s rude and clamorous grief only proves that the retribution I 
have dealt has been more widely felt than by the wretched sufferer 
himself. 1 w'ould 1 knew that it had but naade sore as many rebel 

See Note 0— Trial and Execution of Christian. 


76 


PETERIL OP THE PEAK. 


hearts, as there were loyal breasts afflicted by the death of my 
princely Derby!” 

“So please you, madam,” said Lady Peveril, “since Master 
Bridgenorth hath not the manners to leave us upon my request, we 
will, it your ladyship lists, leave him, and retire to m 3 ' apartment. 
Farewell, Master Bridgenorth; we will meet hereafter on better 
terms. ’ ’ 

“ Pardon me, madam,” said the major, who had been striding 
hastil 3 ' through the room, but now stood fast, and drew himself up, 
as one who has taken a resolution; — “ to yourselt 1 have nothing to 
say but what is respectful; but to this woman I must speak as a 
magistrate. She has confessed a murder in my presence — the mur- 
der too of my brother-in-law — as a man, and as a magistrate, 1 can- 
not permit her to pass from hence, excepting under such custody as 
may prevent her further flight. She has already confessed that she 
is a fugitive, and in search ot a place of concealment, until she 
should be able to escape into foreign parts. Charlotte, Countess of 
Derby, 1 attach thee of the crime of which thou hast but now made 
thy boast.” 

“ 1 shall not obe}' your arrest,” said the countess, composedly, “ I 
was born 1 o give, but not to receive such orders. What have 3 'our 
English laws to do with my ^acts of justice and of government 
within my sou’s hereditary kingdom? Am 1 not Queen in Man, as 
well as Countess of Derby? A feudatory sovereign indeed; but 3 'et 
independent so long as ni}^ dues of homage are duly discharged. 
What right can 3 'ou assert over me?” 

“ That given by the precepts of- Scripture,” answered Bridegnorth 
— “ ‘ Whoso spilleth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be spilled.’ 
Think not the barbarous privileges of ancient feudal customs will 
avail to screen you from the punishment due for an Englishman 
murdered upon pretexts inconsistent with the act of indemnity.” 

“ Master Bridgenorth,” said Lady Peveril, “ if by fair terms you 
desist not from your present purpose, 1 tell you that 1 rjeither dare, 
nor will, permit any violence against this honorable lady, within 
the walls of my husband’s castleT” 

“ You will find yourself unable to prevent me from executing my 
duty, madam,” said Bridgenorth, whose native obstinacy now came 
in aid of his grief and desire of revenge; “ 1 am a magistrate, and 
act by authority.” 

“ 1 know not that,” said Lady Peveril. “ That you were a magis- 
trate, Master Bridgenorth, under the late usurping power’s, I know 
well ; but till 1 hear of your having a commission in the name of the 
king, 1 now hesitate to obey you as such.” 

“ 1 shall stand on small ceremony,” said Bridgenorth. “ AY ere I 
no magistrate, every man has title to arrest for murder against the 
terms of the indemnities held out by the king’s proclamations, and I 
will make my point good.” 

“• AYhat indemnities? AA'hat proclamations?” said the Countess 
of Derby, indignantly. “ Charles Stuart may, if he pleases (and it 
doth seem to please him), consort with those wiiose hands have been 
red with the blood, and blackened with the plunder, of his father 
and of his loj'al subjects. He may forgive them if he will, and 
count their deeds good service. AYhat has that to do with this 


PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


77 

C!hristian’s offense against me and mine? Born a ]\lankesman — bred 
and nursed in the island — he broke the laws under which he lived, 
^nd died for the breach of them, after the fair trial which ihey 
allowed. Methinks, Margaret, we have enough of this peevish and 
loolish magistrate — 1 attend you to your apartment.” 

;Major Bridgenorth placed liimself betwixt them and the door, in 
a manner which showed him determined to interrupt their passage; 
when the Lady Peveril, who thought she had already shown more 
deference to him in this matter than her husband was likely to ap- 
prove of, raised her voice, and called loudly on her steward, Whita- 
ker. That alert person, who had heard high talking, and a female 
voice with which he was unacquainted, had remained for several 
minutes stationed in the acteroom, much afflicted with the anxiety 
of his own curiosity. Of course he entered in an instant. 

‘‘ Let three of the men instantly take arms,” said his lady; “ bring 
them into the anteroom, and wait my further orders.” 


CHAPTER Yl. 

You shall have no worse prison than my chamber. 

Nor jailer than myself. 

The Captain. 

The command which Lady Peveril laid on her domestics to arm 
themselves, was so unlike the usual gentle acc^iescence of her man- 
ners, that' Major Bridgenorth was astonishem “ How mean you, 
madam?” said he; ‘‘ Lthought m3"self under a friendly roof.'’ 

“ And you are so. Master Bridgenorth,” said the Jjady Peveril, 
■without departing from the natural calmness of her voice and man- 
ner; “ but it is a roof which must not be violated by the outrage of 
;one friend against another.” 

“ It is well, madam,” said Bridgenorth, turning to the door of 
the apartment. “ The worthy Master Solsgrace has already fore- 
told that the time was returned when high houses and proud names 
should be once more an excuse for the crimes of those who inhabit 
the one and bear the other. 1 believed him not, but now see he is 
wiser than 1. Yet think not 1 will endure this tamely. The blood 
of my brother— of the friend of my bosom— shall not long call from 
the altar, ‘ How long. O Lord, how long!’ If there is one spark of 
justice left in this unhappy England, that proud woman and 1 shall 
meet where she can have no partial friend to protect her.” 

So saying, he was about to leave the apartment, when Lady Pev- 
eril said, “ You depart not from this place, Master Bridgenorth, 
unless you give me your word to renounce all purpose against the 
noble countess’s liberty upon the present, occasion.” 

” I would sooner,” answered he, “ subscribe to my owft dishonor, 
madam, written down in express words, than to any such composi- 
tion. If any man offers to interrupt me his blood be on his own 
head!” As Major Bridgenorth spoke, Whitaker threw open the 
door, and showed that, with the alertness of an old soldier, who was 
not displeased to see things tend once more toward a state of war- 
fare, he had got with him four stout fellows in the Knight of the 
Peak’s livery, well armed v'ith swords and carabines, buff-coats, 
and pistols at their girdles. 


78 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ 1 will see,” said Major Bridgenorth, ” if any of these men be so 
desperate as to stop me, a freeborn Englishman, and a magistrate in 
the discharge of my duty.” 

So saying, he advanced upon AVhitaker and his armed assistants, 
with his hand upon tlie hilt of his sword. 

“Do not be so desperate, Master Bridgenorth,” exclaimed Lad}’’ 
Peveril; and added, in the same moment, Lay hold upon, and 
disarm him, Whitaker; but do him no injury.” 

Her commands were obeyed. Bridgenorth, though a man of 
moral resolution, was not one of those who undertook to cope in 
person with odds of a description so formidable. He half drew his 
sword, and offered such show of resistance as made it necessary to 
secure him by actual force; but then yielded up his weapon, and 
declared that” submitting io force which one man was unable to 
resist, he made those who commanded, and who employed it, re- 
sponsible for assailing his liberty without a legal w'arrant. 

“INevermind a warrant on a pinch. Master Bridgenorth,” said 
old Whitaker; “sure enough you have often acted upon a worse 
yourself. My lady’s word is as good a warrant, sure, as Old Noll’s 
commission; and you bore that many a day. Master Bridgenorth, 
and, moreover, you laid me in the stocks for drinking the king’s 
health, jVEaster Bridgenorth, and never cared a farthing about the 
laws of England.” 

“Hold your saucy tongue, Whitaker,” said the Lady Peveril; 
“ and do you. Master Bridgenorth, not take it to heart that you are 
detained prisoner for a few^ hours, until the Countess of Derby can 
have nothing to fear from your pursuit. I could easil}’’ send an es- 
cort with her tliat might bid defiance to any force you could muster; 
but 1 wish. Heaven knows, to bury the remembrance of old civil dis- 
sensions, not to awaken new. Once more, will you think better on 
it — assume your sword again, and forget w’hom you have now seen 
at Martindale Castle?” 

“Never,” said Bridgenorth. “The crime of this cruel woman 
will be the last of human injuries which 1 can forget. The last 
thought of earthly kind which will leave me, will be the desire that 
justice shall be done on her.” 

“ If such be your sentiments,” said Lady Peveril, “ though they 
are more allied to revenge than to justice, 1 must provide for my 
friend’s safety, by putting restraint upon your person. In this room 
you will be supplied with every necessary of life, and every con- 
venience; and a message shall relieve your domestics of the anxhdy 
which your absence from the Hall is not unlikely to occasion. When 
a few hours, at most two da3’s are over, 1 will mj’self relieve you 
from confinement, and demand your pardon for now acting as your 
obstinacy compels me to do.” 

The major made no answer but that he was in her hands, and must 
submit to her pleasure; anil then turned suJlenly to the window, as 
if desirous to be rid of their presence. 

The countess and the Lady Peveril left the apartment arm in aim; 
and the lad}^ issued torlh her directions to Whitaker concerning the 
mode in which she was desirous that Bridgenorth should be guarded 
and treated during his temporary confinement; at the same time ex- 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 79 

plaining to him that the safely of the Countess of Derby required 
that he should be closely watched. • 

^ In all proposals for tiie prisoner’s security, such as the regular re- 
lief of guards, and the like, Whitaker joyfully acquiesced, and un- 
dertook, body for body, that he should be detained in captivity for 
the necessary period. But the old steward was not half so docile 
when it came to be considered how the captive’s bedding and table 
should be supplied ; and he thought Lady Peveril displayed a very 
undue degree of attention to her prisoner’s comforts. “ 1 warrant,” 
he said, “ that the cuckoldy Roundhead ate enough of our fat beef 
yesterday to serve him for a month ; and a little fasting will do his 
health good. Marry, for drink, he shall have plenty of cold water 
to cool his hoc liver, wdiich I will be bound is still hissing with the 
strong liquors of yesterday. And as for bedding, there are the fine 
dry boards — more wholesome than the wet straw 1 lay upon when 1 
was in the stocks, I trow.” 

” Whitaker,” said the lady, peremptorily, “ 1 desire you to pro 
vide Master Bridgenorth’s bedding and food in the way 1 have sig- 
nified to you; and to behave yourself toward him in all civility.” 

” Lackaday yes, my lady,” said Whitaker; “you shall have all 
jour directions punctually obeyed; but as an old servant, 1 cannot 
but speak my mind.” 

The ladies retired after this conference with the steward in the 
antechamber, and were soon seated in another apartment, which was 
peculiarly dedicated to the use of the mistress of the mansion- -hav- 
ing, on the one side, access to the family bedroom; and, on the 
other, to the still-room wdiich communicated with tho garden. 
There w\as also a small door which, ascending a few steps, led to that 
balcony, already mentioned, that overhung the kitchen; and the 
same passage, by a separate door, admitted to the principal gallery 
in the chapel; so that the spiritual and temporal affairs of the Castle 
were placed almost at once within the reach of the same regulating 
and directing eye.* 

In the tapestried room, from which issued these various sallyports, 
the countess and Lady Peveril w^ere speedily seated; and the former, 
smiling upon the latter, said, as she took her hand, “ Two things 
have happened to-day which might have surprised me, if anything 
ought to surprise me in such times: — the first is, that yonder round- 
headed fellow should have dared to use such insolence in the house 
of Peveril of the Peak. If your husband is yet the same honest and 
downright cavalier whom I once knew, and had chanced to be at 
home, he would have thrown the knave out of window. But what 
1 wonder at still more, Margaret, is your generalship. 1 hardly 
thought you had courage sufiicient to have taken such decided meas- 
ures after keeping on terms with the man so long. When he spoke 
of justices and warrants, you looked so overawed that 1 thought 1 
felt the clutch of the parish-beadles on my shoulder, to drag me to 
prison as a vagrant.” 

* This peculiar collocation of apartments may be seen at Haddon Hall, Der- 
byshire, once a seat of the Vernons, where, in the lady’s pew' in the chapel, 
there is a sort of scuttle, which opens into the kitchen, so that the good lady 
■could ever and anon, without much interruption of her religious duties, give 
an eye that the roast-meat was not permitted to burn, and that the turn-broche 
did his duty. 


80 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ We owe Master Bridgenortb some deference, my dearest lady,’' 
answered Lady Peveril; “ he .has served us often, and kindl}’-, in 
these late times; but neither he, nor any one else, shall insult the 
Countess of Derby in the house of Margaret Stanley. ” 

‘‘Thou art become a perfect heroine, Margaret,” replied the 
countess, 

“ Two sieges, and alarms innumerable,” said Lady Peveril, “ may 
have taught me presence of mind. My courage is, i believe, as slen- 
der as ever. ’ ’ 

“ Presence of mind is courage,” answered the countess. “ Real 
valor consists not in being insensible to danger, but in being prompt 
to confront and disarm it;— and we may have present occtision for all 
that we possess,” she added, with some slight emotion, “ for 1 hear 
the trampling of horses’ steps on the pavement of the court.” 

In one moment, the boy Julian, breathless with joy, came flying^ 
into the room, to say that papa was returned, with Lamington and 
Sam Brewer; and that he was himself to ride Black Hastings to the 
stable. In the second, the tramp of the honest knight’s heavy jack- 
boots was heard, as, in his haste to see his lady, he ascended the 
staircase by two steps at a time. He burst into the room; his manly 
countenance and disordered dress showing marks that he had been, 
riding fast; and without looking to any one else, caught his good 
lady in his arms, and kissed her a dozen of times. Blushing, and 
with some difficulty. Lady Peveril extricated herself from Sir 
(jeoffrey’s arms; and in a voice of bashful and gentle rebuke, bid 
him, for shame, observe who was in the room. 

‘‘ One,” said the countess, advancing to him, “ who is right glad 
to sec tliat Sir Geoffrey Peveril, though turned couriier and favorite, 
still values the treasure wffiich she had some share in bestowing 
upon him. You cannot have forgot the raising of the leaguer of 
Latham House!” 

‘‘ The noble Countess of Derby!” said Sir Geoftrey, doffing his 
plumed hat with an air of deep deference, and kissing with much 
reverence the hand wiiich she held out to him; ” I am as glad to see 
your ladyship in my poor house, as 1 would be to hear that they had 
found a vein of lead in the Brown 'For. 1 rode hard, in the hope of 
being 3 "our escort through the country. 1 feared you might have 
fallen into bad hands, hearing there was a knave sent out with a 
wairant from the Council.” 

“ \Vhen heard you so? and from whom?” 

“ It was from Cholmondley of Yale-Royal,” said Sir Geoftrey;, 
“ he is come dowm to make provision for your safety through Chesh- 
ire; and 1 promised to bring you there in safety. Prince Rupert, 
Ormond, and other friends, do not doubt the matter will be driven: 
to a fine; but they say the chancellor, and Harry Bennet, and some 
others of the over-sea counselors, are furious at what they cull a 
breach of the king’s proclamation. Hang them, say I! l^hey left 
us to bear all the beating; and now they are incensed that we should 
wish to clear scores with those who rode us like nightmares!”' 

^ ‘‘ AY hat did they talk of for my chastisement?” said the countess. 

“ I wot not,” said Sir Geoffrey; ” some friends, as 1 said, ftoni 
our kind Cheshire, and others, tried to bring it to a fine; but some,, 
again, spoke of nothing but the Tower, and a long imprisonment..”’ 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


81 

“1 have suffered imprisonment long enough for King Charles’s 
Sake,” said the countess; ‘‘and have no mind to undergo it at his 
hand. Besides, if I am removed from the personal superintendence 
of my sou’s dominions in Man, 1 know not what new usurpation; 
may be attempted there. I must be obliged to you, cousin, to con- 
trive that 1 may get in security to Vale-Royal, and from thence 1 
know I shall be guarded safely to Liverpool.” 

‘‘ You may rely on my guidance and protection, noble lady,” 
answered her host, ” though you had come here at midnight, and 
with the rogue’s head in your apron, like Judith in the Holy Apoc- 
rypha, which I joy to hear once more read in churches. ” 

‘‘ Do the gentry resort much to the Court*/” said the lady. 

‘‘Ay, madam,” replied Sir Geoffrey; ‘‘and according to our 
saying, when miners do begin to bore in these parts, it is for the 
Gvdce of God, and what they there may find ” 

]Meet the old Cavaliers with much countenance?” continued the 
countess. 

“ Faith, madam, to speak truth,” replied the knight, ” the king 
hath so gracious a manner, that it makes every man’s hopes blossom, 
though we have seen but few that have ripened into frurt.” 

“Iron have not, yourself, my cousin,” answ'ered the countess, 
‘‘ hart room to complain of rngratitude, I trust? Few have less de- 
served it at the king’s hand.” 

Sir Geoffrey was unwilling, like most prudent persons, to own the 
existence of expectations which had proved fallacious, yet had loo 
little art in his character to conceal his disappointment entirely. 
‘‘ Who, 1, madam?” he said; ‘‘alas! what should a poor country 
knight expect from the king besides the pleasure of seeing him in 
"W hitehall once more, and enjoying hrs own again? And his Majesty 
was very gracious when 1 was presented, and spoke to me of Worces- 
ter, and of my horse. Black Hastings — he had forgot his name, 
though— faith, and mine too, 1 believe, had not Prince Rupert whis- 
pered it to him. And 1 saw some old friends, such as his Grace of 
Ormond, Sir Marmaduke Langdale, Sir Philip Musgrave, and so 
forth; and had a jolly rouse or two, to the tuue ot old times.” 

‘‘ 1 should have thought so many wounds received — so many dan- 
gers risked — such considerable losses— merited something more than 
a few smooth words,” said the countess. 

” Nay, ray lady, there w^ere other friends of minev>ho had the same 
thought,” answered Peveril. ‘‘ Some were of opinion that the loss of 
so many hundred acres of fair land was worth some reward of honor 
at least; and there were who thought my descent from 'William the 
Conqueror— craving your ladyship’s pardon for boasting it in your 
presence — would no^t have become a higher rank or title w’orse than 
the pedigree of some who have been promoted. But what said the 
witty Duke of Buckingham, forsooth? (whose grandsire was a 
Lei’stershire knight— rather poorer, and scarcely so wA'll-born as my- 
self). Why, he said, that if all of my degree who deserved wxJl of 
the king in the late times were to be made peers, the House of 
Lords must meet upon Salisbury Plain!” 

‘‘ And that bad jest passed for a good argument!” said the count- 
ess; ‘‘ and well it might, where good arguments pass for bad jests. 
But here comes one I must be acquainted with.” 


PEVEBIL OF THE PEAK. 


82 

This was little Julian, who now re-entered the hall, leading his 
little sister, as if he had brought her to bear witness of the boastful 
tale which he told his father of his having mantullj^ ridden Black 
Hastings to the stable-yard, alone in the saddle; and that Saunders, 
though he walked by the horse’s head, did not once put his hand 
upon the rein, and Brewer, though he stood beside him, scarce held 
him by the knee. The father kissed the boy heartil}'^; and the count- 
ess, ciilling him to her so soon as Sir Geoffrey had set him down, 
kissed his forehead also, and then surveyed all his features with a 
keen and pentrating eye. 

“ He is a true Peveril,” said she, “ mixed as he should be with 
some touch of the Stanley. Cousin, you must grant me my boon, 
and when 1 am safely eslablishecl, and have my present affair 
arranged, you must let me have this little .Julian of yours some time 
hence, 1o be nurtured in my house, held as my page, and the play- 
fellow of the little Derby. I trust in Heaven, they will be such 
friends as their fatliers have been, and may God send them more 
fortunate times!”* 

“ Marry, and 1 thank you for the proposal with all my heart, 
madam,” said the knight. ” There are so many noble houses de- 
cayed, and so many more in which the exercise and discipline for 
the training of noble j’^oiiths is given up and neglected, that 1 have 
often feared 1 must have kept Gii to be young master at home; and 
1 have had too little nurture myself to teach him much, and so he 
would have been a mere hunting hawking knight of Derbyshire. But 
in j^our ladyship’s household, and with the noble j^oung earl, he will 
have all, and more than all, the education which 1 could desire.” 

“ There shall be do distinction betwixt them, cousin,” said the 
countess; “ Margaret Stanley’s son shall be as much the object of 
care to me as my own, since you are kindlj" disposed to intrust 
him to my charge. You look pale, Margaret,” she continued, 
“ and the tear stands in your eye? Do not be so foolish, my love — 
v/hat 1 ask is better than you can desire for your bo}" ; for the house 
of my father, the Duke de la Tremouille, was the most famous 
school of chivalry in France; nor have 1 degenerated from him or 
suffered any relaxation in that noble discipline which trained young 
gentlemen to do honor to their race. You can promise your Julian 
no such advantages, if you train him up a mere home bred j^outh.” 

“ I acknowdedige the importance of the favor, madam,” said Lady 
Peveril. “and must acquiesce in wdiat your ladyship honors us by 
proposing, and Sir Geoffrey approves of; but Julian is an only 
child, and — ” 

“ An only son,” said the countess, “ but surely not an only child. 
You pay too high deference to our masters, the male sex, if you 
allow Julian to engross all your affection, and spare none for this 
beautiful ^irl.” 

So saying, she set dowm Julian, and, taking Alice Bridgenorth on 
her lap, began to caress her; and there was, notwithstanding her 
masculine character, something so sweet in the tone of her voice and 
in the cast of her features, that the child immediately smiled, and 
replied to her marks of fondness. This mistake embarrassed Lady 


* See Note D.— Pages. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


83 

Peveril exceediogly. Knowing the blunt impetuosity of her hus- 
band’s character, his devotion to the memory of the deceased Earl 
of Derby, and his corresponding veneration for his widow, she was 
alarmed for the consequences of his hearing the conduct of Bridge- 
north that morning, and was particularly desirous that he should 
not learn it save from herself in private, and after due preparation. 
But the countess’s error led to a more precipitate disclosure, 

“ That pretty girl, madam,” answered Sir Geoffrey, ” is none of 
ours— 1 wish she were. She belongs to a neighbor hard by — a good 
man, and, to say truth, a good neighbor — though he was carried off 
from his allegiance in the late times by a d— d Presbyterian scoun- 
drel, who calls himself a parson, and whom 1 hope to fetch down 
from his perch presently, with a wannion to him! He has been 
cock of the roost long enough. There are rods in pickle to switch 
the Geneva cloak with, I can tell the sour-faced rogues that much. 
But this child is the daughter of Bridgenorth — neighbor Bridgenorth, 
of Moultrassie Hall.” 

“ Bridgenorth!” said the countess; “ 1 thought 1 had known all 
the honorable names in Derbyshire— 1 remember nothing of Bridge- 
north. But stay — was there not a sequestrator and committeeman 
of that name? Sure, it Cannot be he?” 

Peveril took some shame to himself as he replied, “It is the very 
man whom your ladyship means, and you may conceive the reluc- 
tance with which I submitted to receive good offices from one of his 
kidney; but had 1 not done so, 1 should have scarce known how to 
find a roof to cover Dame Margaret’s head.” 

The countess, as he spoke, raised the child gently from her lap, 
and placed it upon the carpet, though little Alice showed a disinclina- 
tion to the change of place, which the Lady of Derby and Man 
would certainly hfive indulged in a child of patrician descent and 
loyal parentage. 

“ I blame j'^ou not,” she said; “ no one knows what temptation 
will bring us down to. Yet 1 did think Peveril of the Peak would 
have resided in its deepest cavern, sooner than owed an obligation to 
a regicide.” 

“Nay, madam,” answered the knight, “my neighbor is bad 
enough, but not so bad r.s you would make him; he is but a Presby- 
terian — that 1 must confess — but not an Independent. ” 

“ A variety of the same monster,” said the countess, “ who hal- 
loed while the others hunted, and bound the victim whom the Inde- 
pendents massacred. Betwixt such sects 1 prefer the Independents. 
They are at least bold, bare-faced, merciless villains, have more of 
the tiger in them, and less of the crocodile. 1 have no doubt it was 
that worthy gentleman who took it upon him this morning—” 

She stopped short, for she saw Lady Peveril was vexed and em- : 
barrassed. 

“lam,” she said, “the most luckless of beings. 1 have said 
something, 1 know not what, to distress you, Margaret — mystery is 
a bad thing, and betwixt us there should be' none.” 

“There is none, madam,” said Lady Peveril, something impa-. - 
tiently; “ 1 waited but an opportunity to tell my husband what had 
happened— Sir Geoffrey, Master Bridgenorth was unfortunately 


84 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


here when the Lady Derby and 1 met; and he thought it part of his 
duty to speak of — ” 

“To speak of what?” said the knight, bending his brows. “You 
were ever something too fond, dame, of giving way to the usurpa- 
tion of such people.” 

“ 1 only mean,” said Lad)’' Peveril, “ that as the person — he to 
whom Lady Derby’s story related — was the brother of his late lady, 
he threatened — but 1 cannot think that he was serious.” 

“ Threaten? — threaten the Lady of Derby and Man in my house! 
— the widow of my friend — the noble Charlotte of Latham House — 
by Heaven, the prick-eared slave shall answer it! How comes it that 
my knaves threw him not out of the window?” 

“Alas! Sir Geoffrey, you forget how much we owe him,” said 
the lady. 

“ Owe him!” said the knighc, still more indignant; for in his 
singleness of apprehension he conceived that his wife alluded to pe- 
cuniary obligations — “ if 1 do owe him some money, hath he not 
security for it? and must he have the right, over and above, to 
domineer and play the magistrate in Martindale Castle? "Where is 
he? — what have you made of him? I will — 1 must speak with 
him.” 

“ Be patient. Sir Geoftrey,” said the countess, who now discerned 
the cause of her kinswoman’s apprehension; “ and be assured 1 did 
not need your chivalry to defend me against this discourteous 
faitour, as IMorte d’Arthur would have called him. 1 promise you 
my kinswoman hath fully righted my wrong; and 1 am so pleased 
to owe my deliverance eritirely to her gallantry, that 1 charge and 
command you, as a true knight, not to mingle in the adventure of 
another. ’ ’ 

Lady Peveril, who knew her husband’s blunt and impatient temper, 
and perceived that he was becoming angry, now took up the story, 
and plainly and simply pointed out the’ cause of Master Bridge- 
north’s interference. 

“ 1 am sorry for it,” said the knight; “ 1 thought he had more 
sense; and that this happy change nifght have done some good upon 
him. But you should have told me this instantly — it consists not 
with my honor that he should be kepi prisoner in this house, as if I 
feared anything- he could do to annoy the noble countess, while she 
is under my roof, or within twent)- miles of this castle.” 

So saying, and bowing to the ’countess, he went straight to the 
gilded chamber, leaving Lady Peveril in great anxiety for the event 
of an angry meeting between a tercper hasty as that of her husband, 
and stubborn like that of Bridgenorth. Her apprehensions ivere, 
however, unnecessary; for the meeting was not fated to take place. 

When Sir Geoffrey Peveril, having dismissed Whitaker and his 
sentinels, entered the gilded chamber, in which he expected to find 
his captive, the prisoner had escaped, and it was easy to see in what 
manner. The sliding panel had, in the hurry of the moment, 
escaped the memory of Lady Peveril and of Whitaker, the only 
persons who knew anything of it. It was probable that a chink had 
remained open,^ sufficient to indicate its existence to Bridgenorth: 
who, withdrawing it altogether, had found his way into the secret 
apartment with which it communicated, and from thence to the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


85 


postern of the castle by another secret passage, which had been 
formed in the thickness of the wall, as is not uncommon in ancient 
mansions; the lords of which were liable to so many mutations of 
fortune, that they usually contrived to secure some lurking place and 
secret mode of retreat from their fortresses. That Bridgenortli had 
discovered and availed himself of this secret mode of retreat was 
evident; because the private doors communicating with the postern 
and the sliding panel in the gilded chamber, were both left open. 

Sir Geoffrey returned to the ladies with looks of perplexity. While 
he deemed Bridgenorth within his reach, he was apprehensive of 
nothing he could do; for he felt himself his superior in personal 
-Strength, and in that species of courage which induces a man to rush, 
without hesitation, upon personal danger. But when at a distance, 
he had been for many years accustomed to consider Bridgenorth ’s 
power and influence as something formidable; and notwithstanding 
the late change of affairs, his ideas so naturally reverted to his neigh- 
bor as a powerful friend or dangerous enemy, that he felt more appre- 
hension on the countess’s score, than he was willing to acknowledge 
even to himself. The countess observed his downcast and anxious 
brow, and requested to know if her stay there was likel}’ to involve 
him in any trouble, or in any danger. 

“ The trouble should be welcome,” said Sir Geoffrey, “ and more 
welcome the danger, which should come on such an account. My 
plan was, that your ladyship sliould have honored Martindale with 
a few days’ residence, which might have been kept private until the 
■search after you was ended. Had 1 seen this fellow Bridgenorth, 1 
have no iloubt I could have compelled him to act discreetly; but he 
is now at liberty, and will keep out of my reach; and, what is worse, 
he has the secret of the priest’s chamber.” 

Here the knight paused, and seemed much embarrassed. 

” You can, then, neither conceal nor protect me?” said the coun- 
tess, 

” Pardon, my honored lady,” answered the knight, “ and let me 
say out my say. The plain truth is, that this man hath many 
friends among the Presbyterians here, who are more numerous than 1 
would wish them; and if he falls in with the pursuivant fellow who 
can’ies the warrant of the Privy Council, it is likely he will back 
him with force sufficient to try to execute it. And 1 doubt whether 
any of .our friends can be summoned together in haste, sufficieut to 
resist such a power as they are like to bring together,” 

” Nov would 1 wish any friends to take arms, in my name, against 
the king’s warrant, Sir Geoffrev,” said the countess. 

” INay, for that matter,” replied the knight, ” and his majesty will 
grant warrants against his best friends, he must look to have them 
resisted. But the best 1 can think of in this emeigence is— though 
the proposal be something inhospitable — that your lad 3 "ship should 
take presently to horse, if your' fatigue will permit. 1 will mount 
also, with some brisk fellows, who will lodge you safe at Yale- 
Royal, though the sheriff stopped the way with a whole posse com- 
itat'iis.'' 

The Countess of Derby willingly acquiesced in this proposal. She 
had enjoyed a night’s sound repose in I he private chamber, to which 
Ellesmere had guided her on the preceding evening, and was quite 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


86 

ready to resume her routes or flight^ — “ she scarce knew/’ she said, 
" which of the two she should term it. ” 

Lady Peveril wept at the necessity which seemed to hurry hey 
earliest friend and protectress from under her roof, at the instant 
when the clouds of adversity were gathering around her; but she 
saw no alternative equally safe. Nay, however strong her attach- 
ment to Lady Derby, she could not but be more readily reconciled 
to her hasty departure, when she considered the inconvenience, and 
even danger, in which her presence, at such a time, and in such cir- 
cumstances, tvas likely to involve a man so bold and hot-tempered 
as her husband. Sir Geoffrey. 

While Lady Peveril, therefore, made every arrangement which 
time peimitted and circumstances required, for the countess prose- 
cuting her journey, her husband, whose spirits always rose with the 
prospect of action, issued his orders to Whitaker to get together a 
few stout fellows, with back and breast-pieces, and steel-caps. 
“ There are the two lackeys, and Outram and Saunders, besides the 
other groom fellow, and Roger Raine, and his sou ; but bid Roger 
not come drunk again ; — thyself, young Dick of the Dale and his 
servant, and a file or two of the tenants — we shall be enough for 
any force they can make. All these are fellows that will strike 
hard, and ask no question why — their hands aie ever readier than 
their tongues, and their mouths are more made for drinking than 
speaking.^’ 

Whitaker, apprised of the necessity of the case, asked if he should 
not warn Sir Jasper Cranbourne. 

“ Not a word to him, as you live,” said the knight; “ this may be 
an outlawry, as they call it, for what I know; and therefore I'will 
bring no lands or tenements into peril, saving mine own. Sir Jasper 
hath had a troublesome time of it for many a year. By my will, he 
shall sit quiet for the rest of ’s day.” 


CHAPTER Vll. 

Fang. A rescue ! a rescue ! 

Mrs. Quickly. Good people, bring a rescue or two. 

Heiiry IV. Part I. 

The followers of Peveril were so well accustomed to the sound of 
” Boot and Saddle,” that they were soon mounted and in order; and 
in all the form, and with some of the dignity of danger, proceeded 
to escort the Countess of Derby through the hilly and desert tfack 
of country which connects the frontier of the shire with the neigh- 
boring county of Cheshire. The cavalcade moved with considera- 
ble precaution, which they had been taught by the discipline of the 
Civil Wars. One wary and well- mounted trooper rode about two 
hundred yards in advance; followed, at about half that distance, by 
two more, with their carabines advanced, as if ready for action. 
About one hundred yards behind the advance, came the main body; 
where the Countess of Derby, mounted on Lady PeveriPs ambling 
palfrey (for her own had been exhausted by the journey from Lon- 
don to Martindale Castle), acompanied Dy one groom, of approved 
fidelity, and one waiting-maid, was attended -and guarded by the 


PEYEIilL OF THE PEAK. 


87 

Knight of the Peak, and three files of good and practiced horsemen. 
In the rear came Whitaker, with Lance Outram, as men of especial 
trust, to whom the covering the retreat was confided. They rode, 
as the Spanish proverb expresses it, “ with the beard on the shoulder,” 
looking around, that is, from time to time, and using every pre- 
caution to have the speediest knowledge of any pursuit which might 
take place. 

But, however wise in discipline, Peveril and his foiloweis were 
somewhat remiss in civil polic3^ The knight had communicated to 
Whitaker, though without any apparent necessity, the precise 
nature of their present expedition; and AVhitaker was equally 
•fx)mmunicative to his comrade Lance, the keeper. ‘‘It is strange 
■enough, Master Whitaker,” said the latter, when he had heard 
the case, “ aad 1 wish you, being a wise man, would expound 
it;— why, when we have been wishing for the king — and praying 
for the king — and fighting tor the king — and dying for the king, for 
these twenty years, the flrst. thing we find to do on his return, is to 
^et into harness to resist his warrant?” 

” Pooh! you silly fellow,” said Whitaker, ” that is all j'^ou know 
of the true bottom of our quarrel! Why, man, we fought tor the 
king’s person against his warrant, all along from the very begin- 
ning; for 1 remember the rogues’ proclamations, and so forth, al- 
ways ran in the name of the king and parliamenl.” 

” Ay! was it even so?” replied Lance. ‘‘Nay, then, if they be- 
^in the old game so soon again, and send out warrants in the king’s 
name against his loyal subjects, well tare our stout knight, say 1, 
who is ready to take them down in their stocking- soles. And it 
Bridgenorth takes the chase after us, 1 shall not be sorry to have a 
knock at him for one.” 

” Why, the man, bating he is a pestilent Boundhead and Puri- 
tan,” said Whitaker, ‘‘is no bad neighbor. What has he done to 
thee, man?” 

“ Pie has poached on the manor,” answered the keeper. 

‘‘ The devil he has!” replied Whitaker. “ Thou must be jesting, 
Lance. Bridgenorth is neither hunter nor hawker; he hath not so 
much of honesty in him.” 

‘‘ Av, but he runs after game you little think of, with his sour, 
melancholy face, that would scare babes and curdle milk,” answered 
Lance. 

‘‘ Thou canst not mean the wenches?” said Whitaker: ” why, he 
hath been melancholy mad^^ith moping for the death of his wife. 
Thou knowest our lady took the child, for fear he should strangle it 
for putting him in mind of its mother, in some of his tantrums. 
Under her favor, and among friends, there are many poor Cavaliers’ 
children, that care would be better bestowed upon. But to thy 

^^“ Why, thus it runs,” said Lance. ‘‘1 think you may have 
noticed, ‘Master Whitaker, that a certain Mistress Deborah hath man- 
ifested a certain favor for a certain person in a certain household.” 

‘‘ For thyself, to wit,” answered Whitaker; ‘‘ Lance Outram, thou 
art the vainest coxcomb— ” . , , , , 

‘‘ Coxcomb?” said Lance; ‘‘ why, ’twas but last night the whole 
family saw her, as one would sa}', fling herself at my head. 


88 PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 

“ 1 would she bad been a brick-bat, then, to have broken it, for 
thy impertinence and conceit,” said the steward. 

“Well, but do but hearken. The next morning— that is, this 
very blessed moraing — 1 thought of going to lodge a buck in the 
park, iudging a bit of venison might be wanted in the larder, after 
yesterday’s wassail ; and, as 1 passed under the nursery window, 1 
did but just look up to see what madam go veinante was about; and 
so 1 saw her, throuffh the casement, whip on her hood and scarf as 
soon as she had a gtimpse of me. Immediately after I saw the still-^ 
room door open, and made sure she was coming through the gar- 
den, and so over the breach and down to the park; and so, thought 
1, ‘ Aha, Mistress Deb, it you are so ready to dance after my pipe 
and tabor, 1 will give you a couranto before you shall come up with 
me.’ And so 1 went down Ivy-tod Dingie, where the copse is 
tangled, and the ground swampy, and round by Haxleybottom,. 
thinking all the while she was following, and laughing in my sleeve 
at the round 1 was giving her.” 

“You deserved to be ducked for it,” said Whitaker, “for a 
weather-headed puppy; but what is all this Jack-a-lantern story to 
Bridgenorth?” 

“ Why, it was all along of he, man,” continued Lance, “ that is, 
of Bridgenorth, that she did not follow me. Gad, I first walked 
slow, aiTd then stopped, and then turned back a little, and then be- 
gan to w'oncler what she had made of herself, and to think 1 had 
borne myself something like a jackass m the matter.” 

“ That 1 den)",” said Whitaker, “ never jackass but w"ould have 
borne him better — but go on.” 

“ Why, turning my face toward the castle, 1 Went back as if 1 had 
my nose bleeding, when just by the Copely thorn, which stands, you 
know, a flight-^hot from the postern-gate, 1 saw Madam Deb in close 
conference with the enemy.” 

“ What enemy?” said the stew"ard. 

~ “ What enemy! why, who but Bridgenorth? They kept out of 
sight, and among the copse; but, thought 1, it is hard if 1 cannot 
strUh you, that have stalked so many bucks. If so, 1 had better 
give my shafts to be pudding pins. So 1 cast round the thicket, to 
watch their w^aters; and, may 1 never bend crossbow again, it 1 did 
not see him give her gold, and squeeze her by the hand!” 

“ And was that all you saw pass between them?” said the steward. 

“ Faith, and itw"as enough to dismount me from my hobby,” said 
Lance. “What! when 1 thought 1 had the prettiest girl in the 
castle dancing after my whistle, to find that she gave me the bag to 
hold, and was smuggling in a corner 'with a rich old Puritan!” 

“ Credit me, Lance, it is not as thou thinkest,” said Whitaker. 
“ Bridgenorth cares not tor these amorous toys, and thou thinkest 
of nothing else. But it is fitting our knight should know that he 
has met w"ith Deborah in secret, and given her gold; for never Puri- 
tan gave gold yet, but it was earnest for some devil's work done, or 
to be done.” 

“Kay, but,” said Lance, “ 1 w^ould not be such a dog-bolt as to 
go and betray the girl to our master. She hath a right to follow her 
fancy, as the dame said w'ho kissed her cow— only 1 do not much 
approve her choice, that is all. He cannot be six years short of 


PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


89 

fifty: and a verjuice countenance, under the penthouse of a slouched 
beaver, and bag of meager dried bones, swaddled up in a black cloak, 
is no such temptation, methiuks.” 

“ 1 tell you once more,” said Whitaker, ” you are mistaken; and 
that there neither is, nor can be, any matter of love between them, but 
only some intrigue, concerning, perhaps, this same noble Countess of 
Derby. 1 tell thee, it behooves my master to know it, and 1 will pres- 
ently tell it to him.” 

So saying, and in spite of all the remonstrances M^hich Lance con- 
tinued to make on behalf of Mistress Deborah, the steward rode up 
to the main body of their little party, and mentioned to the knight 
and the Countess of Derby what he had just heard from the keeper, 
adding at the same time his own suspicions, that Master Bridge- 
north of Moultrassie Hall was desirous to keep up some system of 
espial in the Castle of Martindale, either in order to secure his men- 
aced vengeance on the Countess of Derby, as authoress of his broth- 
er-in-law’s death, or for some unknown, but probably sinister pur- 
pose. 

The Knight of the Peak was filled with high resentment at 
Whitaker’s communication. According to his prejudices, those of 
the opposite faction were supposed to make up by wit and intrigue 
what they wanted in oiren force; and he now hastily conceived that 
his neighbor, whose prudence he always respected, and sometimes 
even dreaded, was maintaining, for his private purposes, a clandestine 
correspondence with a member of his family. If this was for the 
betrayal of his noble guest, it argued at once treachery and presump- 
tion; or, viewing the whole as Lance had done, a criminal intrigue 
with a woman so near the person of Lady Peveril, was in itself, he 
deemed, apiece of sovereign impertinence and disrespect on the part 
of such a person as Bridgenorth, against whom Sir Geoftrey’s anger 
was kindled accordingly. 

Whitaker had scarce regained his post in the rear, when he again 
quitted it, and galloped to the main body vvith more speed than be- 
fore, with the unpleasing tidings that they were pursued by halt a 
score of horsemen, and better. 

” Ride on briskly to Hartley-nick,” said the knight, ” and there, 
with God to help, we will bide the knaves! Countess of Derby — 
one word and a short one. Farewell! — you must ride forward with 
Whitaker and another careful fellowy and let me alone to see that no 
one treads on your skirts.” 

‘‘1 will abide with 3 ’ou and stand them,” said the countess; 
“ you know of old, 1 fear not to look on man’s w'ork.” 

” You must ride on, madam,” said the knight, “ for the sake of 
the j’oung earl, and the rest of my noble frieiid’s family. There is 
no manly w^ork which can be worth your looking upon; it is but 
child’s play that these fellows bring with them.” 

As she yielded a reluctant consent to continue her flight, they 
reached the bottom of Hartley-nick, a pass very steep and craggy, 
and wiiere the road, or rather path, which had hitherto passed over 
more open ground, became pent up and confined, betwixt copse- 
wood on the one side, and, on the other, the precipitous bank of a 
mountain streunx. 

The Countess of Derby, after an affectionate adieu to Sir GeoJulrey, 


90 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


and having requested him to convey her kind commendations to her 
little page-elect and his raothei, proceeded up the pass at a round 
pace, and with her attendants and escort, was soon out ot siglit. 
Immediately alter she had disappeared, the pursuers came up with. 
Sir Geoffrey Peveril, who had divided and drawn up his party so as 
completely to occupy the road at three different points. 

The opposite party was led, as Sir Geoffrey had expected, by Major 
Bridgenorth. At his side was a person in black, with a silver grey- 
hound on his arm; and he was followed by about eight or ten in- 
habitants of the village of Martindale-Moultrassie, two or three of 
whom were otffcers ot the peace, and others were personally known 
to Sir Geoffrey as favorers of the subveried government. 

As the party rode briskly up, Sir Geoff rey called to them to halt;, 
and as they continued advancing, he ordered his own people to- 
present their pistols and carabines; and after assuming that menac- 
ing attitude, he repeated, with a voice of thunder, “ Halt, or we 
lire!” 

The other party halted accordingly, and Major Bridgenorth ad- 
vanced, as if to parley. 

‘‘ Why, how now, neighbor,” said Sir Geoffrey, as if he had at 
that moment recognized him for the first time, — ‘‘ what makes vou 
ride so sharp this morning? Are you not afraid to harm your horse 
or spoil your spurs?” 

” Sir Geoffrey,” said the major, ” I have no time for jesting — 1 
am on the king’s affairs.” 

” Are you sure it is not upon Old Noll’s, neighbor? You used to 
hold his the better errand,” said the knight, with a smile which gave 
occasion to a horse-laugh among his follov^ers. 

” Show him your warrant,” said Bridgenorth to the man in black 
formerly mentioned, who was a pursuivant. Then taking the war- 
rant from the officer, he gave it to Sir Geoffrey—” To this, at least, 
you will pay regard.” 

” The same regard which you would have paid to it a month back 
or so,” said the knight, tearing the warrant to shreds. ” What a 
plague do you stare at? Do you think you have a monopoly of re- 
bellion, and that we have not a right to show a trick of disobedience 
m our turn?” 

‘‘Make way. Sir Geoffrey Peveril,” said Bridgenorth, ‘‘or you 
will compel me to do that 1 may be sorry for. 1 am in this matter 
the avenger of the blood ot one of the Lord’s saints, and 1 will fol- 
low the chase while Heaven grants me an arm to make my way.” 

‘‘You shall make no way here, but at your peril,” said Sir' 
Geoffrey; ‘‘this is my ground— 1 have been harassed enough for 
these twenty years by saints, as you call yourselves. 1 tell you 
master, you shall neither violate the securit}^ of my house, nor pur- 
sue my friends over the grounds, nor tamper, as you have done 
amongst^ my servants, with impunity. 1 have had you in respect 
for certain kind doings, which 1 will not either forget or deny, and 
you will find it difficult to make me draw a sword or bend a pistol ' 
against you; but offer any hostile movement, or presume to advance 
a foot, and 1 will make sure of you presently. And for these rascals 
who come hither to annoy a noble lady on my bounds, unless you. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 91 

■draw them off, 1 will presently sepd some of them to the devil be- 
iore their time. ’ ’ 

“ Make room at your proper peril," said Major Bridgenorth; and 
he put his right hand, on his holster- pistol. Sir Geoffrey closed 
with him instantly, seized him by the collar, and spurred Black 
Hastings, checking him at the same time, so that the horse made a 
courbette, and brought the full weight of his chest against the 
counter of the other. A ready soldier might, in Bridgenorth ’s situ- 
ation, have rid himself of his adversary with a bullet. But Bridge- 
north’s courage, notwithstanding his having served some time with 
the Parliament army, was rather of a civil than a military charac- 
ter; and he was inferior to his adversary, not only in strength and 
horsemanship, but also and especially in the daring and decisive res- 
olution which made Sir Geoffrey thrust himself readily into per- 
sonal contest. While, therefore, they tugged and grappled together 
upon terms which bore such little accordance with their long ac- 
quaintance and close neighborhood, it was no wonder that Bridge- 
north should be unhorsed with much violence. While Sir Geoffrey 
sprung from the saddle, the party of Bridgenorth advanced to res- 
cue their leader, and that of the knight to oppose them. Swords 
were unsheathed, and pistols presented; but Sir Geoffrey, with the 
voice of a herald, commanded both parties to stand back, and to keep 
the peace. 

The pursuivant took the hint, and easily found a reason for not 
prosecuting a dangerous dut}^ " The warrant," he said, " was de- 
stroyed. They that did it must be answerable to the council; for 
his part, he could proceed no further without his commission." 

“ Well said, and likes a peaceable fellow,” said Sir Geoffrey. 
“ Let him have refreshment at the castle— -his nag is sorely out of 
condition. Come, neighbor Bridgenorth, get up, man — 1 trust you 
have had no hurt in this mad affray? I was loath to lay hand on 
you, man, till you plucked out your petronel." 

As he spoke thus, he aided the major to rise. The pursuivant, 
meanwhile, drew aside; and with him the consfable and head- 
borough, who were not without some tacit suspicion, that though 
Peveril was interrupting the direct course of law in this matter, yet 
he was likely to ha^e his offense considered by favorable judges; 
and therefore it might be as much for their interest and safety to 
give way as to oppose him. But the rest of the paiW, friends of 
Bridgenorth, and of his principles, kept their ground notwithstand- 
ing this defection, and seemed, from their looks, siernly determined 
to rule their conduct by%that of their leader, whatever it might be. 

But it was evident that Bridgenorth did not intend to renew the 
struggle. He shook himself rather roughly free from the hands of 
Sir Geoffrey Peveril; but it was not to draw his sword. On the 
contrary, he mounted his horse wrth a sullen and dejected air; and, 
making a sign to his followers, turned back the same road which he 
had come. Sir Geoffrey looked after him for some minutes. 
" Now, there goes a man," said he, " who would have been a right 
honest fellow had he not been a Presbyterian. But there is no 
heartiness about them- they can never forgive a fair fall ujron the 
sod — they bear malice, and that 1 hate as 1 do a black cloak, or a 
Geneva skull-cap, and a pair of long ears rising on each side on’t, 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


92 

like two cbimneTS at the gable ends ot a thatched cottage. They are 
as sly as the devil to boot; and, theretore, Lance Ontram, take two 
with you, and keep after them, that they may not turn our flank,, 
and get on the track of the countess again after all.” 

1 had as soon they should course my lady’s white tame doe,’^ 
answered Lance, in the spirit of his calling. He proceeded to ex* 
ecute his master’s orders by dogging Major Bridgenortli at a dis- 
tance, and observing his course from such heights as commanded . 
the country. But it was soon evident that no maneuver was in- 
tended, and that the major was taking the direct read homeward.. 
When this was ascertained, Sir Geoffrey dismissed most of his fol- 
lowers; and retaining only his own domestics, rode hastily forward 
to overtake the countess. 

It is only necessary to say further, that he completed bis purpose 
of escorting the Countess of Derby to Vale-Royal, without meeting 
any further hinderance hy the way. The lord of the mansion readily 
undertook to conduct the high-minded lady to Liverpool, and the 
task of seeing her safely embarked for her son's hereditary domin- 
ions, where there was no doubt of her remaining in personal safety 
until the accusation against her for breach of the Royal Indemnity, 
b}'^ the execution of Christian, could be brought to some compromise. 
For a length of time this was no easy matter. Clarendon, then at 
the head ot Charles’s administration, considered her rash action, 
though dictated by motives which the human breast must, in some 
respects, sympathize with, as calculated to shake the restored tran- 
quillity of England, by exciting the doubts and jealousies of those 
who had to apprehend the consequences ot what is called, in our 
time, a reaction. At the same time, the high services ot this dis- 
tinguished family — the merits ot the cduntess herself — the memory 
of her gallant husband— and the very peculiar circumstances of 
jurisdiction which took the case out of all common rules, pleaded 
strongly in her favor; and the cTeath ot Christian was at length only 
punished by the imposition of a heavy fine, amounting, we believe, 
to many thousand pounds; which was levied, with great difficulty, 
out ot the shattered estates of the young Earl of Der%. 

CHAPTER Vlll. 

My native land, good-night ! 

Byron. 

Lady Pevekil remained in no small an.^ety for several hours 
after her husband and the countess had departed from Martindale 
Castle; more especially when she learned that Major Bridgenortli, 
concerning whose motions she made private inquiry, had taken 
horse with a party, and was gone to the westward in the same direc- 
tion with Sir Geoffrey. 

At length her immediate uneasiness in regard to the safety of her 
husband and the countess was removed, by the arrival of Whitaker, 
with her husband’s commendations, and an account of the scuffle 
betwixt himself and Major Bridgenorth. 

Lady Peveril shuddered to see"" how nearly they had approached 
to renewal of the scenes of civil discord; and while she was thank- 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 93 

ful to Heaven for her husband's immediate preservation, she could 
not help feeling both -regret and apprehehsion for the consequences 
of his quarrel with Major Bridgenorth. They had now lost an old 
friend, who had sho^^ed himself such under those circumstances 
of adversity by which friendship is most severely tried ; and she 
could not disguise fiom herself, that Bridgenorth, thus irritated, 
might be a troublesome, if not a dangerous enemy. His rights as a 
creditor, he had hitherto used with g'entleness; but if he should em- 
ploy rigor, Lady Peveril, whose attention to domestic economy had 
made her much better acquainted with her husband's affairs than he 
was himself, foresaw considerable inconvenience from the measures 
which the law put in his power. She comforted herself with the 
recollection, however, that she had still a strong hold on Bridge- 
north, through his paternal affection, and from the fixed opinion 
wdiich he had hitherto manifested, that his daughter's health could 
only flourish while under her charge. But any expectations of rec- 
onciliation which Lady Peveril might probably have founded on 
this circumstance, were frustrated by an incident which took place 
in the course of the following morning. 

The governante. Mistress Deborah, who has been already men- 
tioned, went forth as usual, with the children, to take their morn- 
ing exercise in the park, attended by Rachael, a girl who acted oc- 
casionally as her assistant in attending upon them. But not as usual 
did she return. It was near the hour of breakfast, when Ellesmere, 
with an unwonted degree of primness in her mouth and manner, 
came to acquaint her lady that Mistress Deborah had not thought 
proper to come back from the park, though the breakfast hour ap- 
proached so near. 

“ She will come, then, presently,” said Lady Peveril, with in- 
difference. 

Ellesmere gave a short and doubtful cough, and then proceeded to 
say, that Rachael had been sent home with little Master Julian, and 
that Mistress Deborah had been pleased to say, she would walk on 
with Miss Bridgenorth as far as Moultrassie Holt; which was a 
point at which the property of the major, as matters now stood, 
bounded that of Sir Geoffrey Peveril. 

“ Is the w’ench turned silly,” exclaimed the lady, something 
angrily, ” that she does not obey my orders, and return at regular 
hours?” 

‘‘She may be turning "silly, ” said Ellesmere, mysteriously: “or 
she may be turning too sly; and i think it were as well your lady- 
ship looked to it.” 

“ Looked to what, Ellesmere?” said the lady, impatiently. “ You 
are strangely oracular this morning. If 3'ou know anything to the;; 
prejudice of this j^oung woman, 1 pray you speak it out.” 

‘‘1 prejudice!” said Ellesmere; “1 scorn to prejudice man, 
woman, or child, in the way of a fellow-servant; only 1 wish your 
ladj^hip to look about you, and use your own eyes— that is all.” 

“ Y^'otr bid me use 1113' own eyes, Ellesmere; but 1 suspect,” an- 
sw’ered the lady, “ you would be better pleased w^ere 1 contented to 
see through your spectacles. 1 charge you — and 3'ou know' 1 will 
be obeyed— 1 charge you to tell me what you know or suspect about 
this girl, Deborah Debbitch.” 


94 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“1 see through spectacles?” exclaimed the indignant Abigail; 

your ladyship will pardon me in that, for 1 never use them, un- 
less a pair that belonged to my poor mother, which 1 put on when 
your ladyship wants your pinners curiously wrought. No woman 
above sixteen ever did white-seam without barnacles. And then as 
to suspecting, 1 suspect nothing; for as your ladyship liatti taken 
Mistress Deborah Debbitch from under my hand, to be sure it is 
neither bread nor butter of mine. Only,” (here she began to speak 
with her lips shut, so as scarce to permit a sound to issue, and minc- 
ing her words as if she pinched oft the ends of them before she 
suffered them to escape,)— ” only, madam, if Mistress Deborah 
goes so often of a morning to Moultrassie Bolt, why, 1 should not 
be surprised if she should never find the way back again.” 

” Once more, wdiat do you mean, Ellesmere? You were wont to 
have scxne sense — let me know distinctly what the matter is.” 

” Only, madam,” pursuetl the Abigail, ” that since Bridgenorth 
came back from Chesterfield, and saw you at the Castle Hall, Mis- 
tress Deborah has been pleased to carry the children ever}^ morning 
to that place; and it has so happened that she has often met the 
major, as they call him, there in his walks; for he can walk about 
now like other folks; and 1 warrant you she hath not been the worse 
of the meeting — one way at least, for she hath bought a new hood 
might serve yourself, naadam; but whether she hath had anything 
in hand beside a piece of money, no doubt your ladyship is best 
judge.” 

Lady Peveril, who readily adopted the more good-natured con- 
.struction of the governante’s motives, could not help laughing at the 
idea of a man of Bridgenorth ’s precise appearance, strict principles, 
and reserved habits, being suspected of a design of gallantry; and 
readily concluding, that Mistress Deborah had found her advantage 
in gratifying his parental affection by a frequent sight of his daugh- 
ter during the tew days which intervened betwixt his first seeing 
little Alice at the castle, and the events which had followed. But 
she was somewhat surprised, when, an hour after the usual break- 
fast hour, during which neither the child nor Mistress Deboran ap- 
peared, IVIajor Bridgenorth's only man-servant arrived at the castle 
on horseback, dressed as for a journey; and having delivered a let- 
ter addressed to herself, and another to Mistress Ellesmere, rode 
away without waiting anj’’ answer. 

There would have been nothing remarkable in this, had any other 
person been concerned; but Major Bridgenorth was so very quiet 
and orderly in all his proceedings — so little liable to act hastily or by 
impulse, that the least appearance of bustle where he was con- 
cerned, excited surprise and curiosity. 

Lady Peveril broke her letter hastily open, and found that it con- 
tained the following lines:— 

For the Hands of the Ilonorahle and Honored Lady Peveril. These : 

” Madam, —Please it your Ladyship, 

” 1 write more to excuse myself to your ladyship, than to accuse 
cither you or others, in respect that 1 am sensible it becomes our 
fraU nature better to confess our own imperfections, than to com- 
plain of those of others. Neither do 1 mean to speak of past times. 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 95 

particularly in respect of your worthy ladyship, being sensible that 
if 1 have served you in that period when our Israel might be called 
triamphanf, you liave more than requited me, in giving to my arms 
a child, redeemed, as it were, from the vale of the shadow of death. 
And therefore, as 1 heartily forgive to your ladyship the unkind and 
violent measure which you dealt to me at our last meeting (seeing 
that the woman who was the cause of strife is accounted one of 
your kindred people), 1 do entreat you, in like manner, to pardon 
my enticing away from your service the young woman called Deb- 
orah Debbitch, whose nurture, instructed as she hath been under 
your ladyship’s direction, is, it may be, indispensable to the health of 
my dearest child. 1 had purposed, madam, with your gracious per- 
mission, that Alice should have remained at Mai tindale Castle, under 
your kind charge, until she could so far discern betwixt good and evil,, 
that it should b’e matter of conscience to teach her the way in which 
she should go. For it is not unknown to your ladyship, and in no* 
way do 1 speak it reproachfully, but rather sorrowfully, that a per- 
son so excellently gifted as 3 ’^ourself — 1 mean touching natural quali- 
ties-— has not yet received that true light, which is a lamp to the 
paths, but are contented to stumble in darkness, and among the 
graves of dead men. It has been my prayer in the watches of the 
night, that your ladyship should cease from the doctrine which 
causeth to err; but 1 grieve to say, that our candlestick being about 
to be removed, the land will most likely be involved in deeper dark- 
ness than ever; and the return of the king, to which 1 and many 
looked forward as a manifestation of divine favor, seems to prove 
little else than a permitted triumph of the Prince of the Air, wdio set- 
teth about to restore his Vanity- fair of bishops, deans, and such 
like, extruding the peaceful ministers of the word, whose labors- 
have proved faithful to many hungry souls. So, hearing from a sure 
.hand, that commission has gone forth to restore these dumb dogs, the- 
followers of Laud and of Williams, who were cast forth by the late 
Parliament, and that an Act of Conformity, or rather of deformity,, 
of worship, was to be expected, it is my purpose to flee from the 
wrath to come, and to seek some corner where 1 may dwell in peace,, 
and enjoy liberty of conscience. For who would abide in the Sanc- 
tuary, after the carved work thereof is broken down, and when it 
hath been made a place for owls, and satyrs of the wilderness? And 
herein 1 blame myself, madam, that 1 went in the singleness of my 
heart too readily into that carousing in the house of feasting,, 
wherein my love of union, and my desire to show respect to your 
ladyship, were made a snare to me. But 1 trust it will be an atone- 
ment, that i am now about to absent myself from the place of my 
birth, and the house of my fathers, as well as from the place which 
holdeth the dust of those pledges of my affection. I have also to- 
remember, that in this land my honor (after the worldl}’^ eBtimation) 
hath been abated, and my utility circumscribed, by 3 "our husband. 
Sir Geoffrey Peveril; and that without any chance of my obtaining- 
reparation at his hand, whereby i may say the hand of a kinsman 
was lifted up against my cretlit and my life. These things are bitter 
to the taste of the old Adam ; wherefore, to prevent further bicker- 
ings, and, it may be, bloodshed, it is better that I leave this land for 
a time. The affairs which remain to be settled between Sir 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


96 

Geoffrey aad myself 1 shall place in the hand of the righteous Mas- 
ter Joachim Win-the-Fight, an attorney in Chester, who will ar- 
range them with such attention to Sir Geoffrey's convenience as 
justice, and the due exercise of the law, will permit; for, as I trust 
1 shall have grace to resist the temptation to make tile weapons of 
carnal warfare the instmments of my revenge, so 1 scorn to effect it 
through the means of Mammon. Wishing, madam, that the Lord 
may grant you every blessing, and, in especial, that which is over 
•all others, namely, the true knowledge of His way, 

“ 1 remain, 

“ Your devoted servant to command, 

“ Kalph Bridgenorth. 

“ Written at Moultrassie Hall, this tenth day of Jidy, 1660.” 

So soon as Lady Peveril had perused this long and singular hom- 
ily, in which it seemed to her that her neighbor showed niore spirit 
of religious fanaticism than she could have supposed him possessed 
of, she looked up and beheld Ellesmere — with a countenance in 
which mortificatibn, and an affected air of contempt, seemed to 
struggle together— who, tired with w’atching the expression of her 
mistress’s countenance, applied for confirmation of her suspicions 
in plain terms. 

“ 1 suppose, madam,” said the waiting-woman, ‘‘ the fanatic fool 
intends to marry the wench? They say he goes to shift the country. 
Trulv it’s time, indeed; for, besides that the whole neighborhood 
would laugh him to scorn, 1 should not be surprised it Lance Ou- 
tram, the keeper, gave him a buck’s, head to bear; for that is all in 
the way of his office.” 

” There is no great occasion for your spite at present, Ellesmere,” 
replied her lady. ” My letter says nothing of marriage; but it would 
appear that Master Bridgenorth, being to leave this country, has en- 
gagetl Deborah to take care of his child; and I am sure l am heart- 
ily glad of it, for the infant’s sake.” 

” And 1 am glad of it for rny own,” said Ellesmere: ” and, in- 
deed, for the sake of the whole house. And your ladyship tlTinks 
she is not like to be married to him? Troth 1 could never see how 
he should be such an idiot; but perhaps she is going to do worse, 
for she speaks here of coming to high preferment, and that scarce 
comes by honest servitirde now-a-days; then she writes me about 
sending her things,, as if 1 were mistresfe of the wardrobe to her lady- 
ship — ay, and recommends Master Julian to the care of my age and 
cxpeiience, forsooth, as if she needed to recommend the "dear* little 
jewel to me; and then, to speak of my age. But 1 will bundle aw'ay 
lier rags to the hall, w'ith a witness!” 

” Do it with all civility,” said the lady, ” and let 'Whitaker send 
Irer the wages for which she has served, and a broad -iriece over and 
above; for though a light-headed young woman, she was kind to 
the children. ” 

” 1 know wdio is kind to their servants, madam, and would spoil 
the best ever pinned a gown.” 

” 1 spoiled a good one, Ellesmere, when 1 spoiled thee.” said the 
3ady; ” but tell Mrs. Deborah to kiss the little Alice for me, and to 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


97 

offer my good ivdelies to Major Bridgenorth for his temporal and 
future happiness.” 

She permitted no observation or reply, but dismissed her attend- 
;ant, without entering into further particulars. 

When Ellesmere had withdrawn, Lady Peveril began to reflect, 
with much feeling of compassion, on the letter of Major Bridge- 
north; a person in whom there were certainly many excellent quali- 
ties, but whom a series of domestic misfortunes and the increasing 
gloom of a sincere, yet stern feeling of devotion, rendered lonely 
and unhappy; and she had more than one anxious thought for the 
happiness of the little Alice, brought up, as she was likely to be, 
♦ under sueh a father. Still the removal of Bridgenorth was, on the 
whole, a desirable event; for while he remained at the Hall, it was 
but too likely that some accidental collision with Sir Geoffrey might 
give rise to a renconter betwixt them, more fatal than the last had 
been. 

In the meanwhile, she could not help expressing to Dr. Dummerar 
. her surprise and sorrow, that all which she had done and attempted, 
to establish peace and unanimity betwixt the contending factions, 
had been perversely fated to turn out the very reverse of what she 
had aimed at. 

“ But for my unhappy invitation,” she said, “ Bridgenorth would 
not have been at the castle on the morning which succeeded the 
feast, would not have seen the countess, and would not have in- 
•curred* the resentment and opposition of my husband. And but for 
the king’s return, an event which was so anxiously expected as the 
termination of all our calamities, neither the noble lady nor our- 
selves had been engaged in this new path of difficulty and danger.” 

“Honored madam,” said Dr. Dummerar, “were the affairs of 
this world to be guided implicitly by human wisdom, or were they 
uniformly to fall out according to the conjectures of human fore- 
sight, events would no longer be under the domination of that time 
and chance, which happen unto all men, since we should, in the 
one case, work out our own purposes to a certainty, by our own 
skill, and in the other, regulate our conduct according to the views 
of unerring prescience. But man is, while in this vale of tears, like 
an uninstructed bowler, so to speak, who thinks to attain the jack, 
by delivering his bowl straight forward upon it, being ignorant that 
there is a concealed bias within the spheroid, which will make it, in 
all probability, swerve away, and lose the cast.” 

Having six)ken this with a sententious air, the doctor took his 
shovel- shaped hat, and went down to the castle green, to conclude 
a match of bowls with 'VYhitaker, which had probably suggested 
this notable illustration of the uncertain course of human events. 

Two days afterward. Sir Geoffrey arrived. Ho had wailed at 
Yale-Royal till he heard of the countess’s being safely embarked for 
Man, and then had posted homeward to his castle and Dame Mar- 
garet. On his way, he learned from some of his attendants the 
mode in which his lady h^d conducted the entertainment which she 
had given to the neigborhood at his order: and notwithstanding the 
great deference he usually showed in cases where Lady Peverfl was 
concerned, he heard of her liberality toward the Presbyterian'‘party 
with great indignation. 

4 


98 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK, 

“ 1 could have admitted Bridgenorth/’ he said, ‘‘ for he always 
bore him in neighborly and kindly iashion till this last career I 
could have endured him, so he would have drunk the king’s health, 
like a true man— but to bring that snuffling' scoundrel Solsgrace, 
with all his beggarly, long- eared congregation, to hold a conventicle 
in my father’s house— to "let them domineer it as they listed — why, 

1 would not have permitted them such liberty, when they held their 
head the highest! They never, in the worst of times, found any way 
into Martindale Castle but 'what Noll’s cannon made for them; and, 
that they should come and cant there, when good King Charles is 
returned — By mj'^ hand, Dame Margaret shall near of it!” 

But, notwithstanding these ireful resolutions, resentment altogether 
subsided in the honest knight’s breast, when he saw the fair features 
of his lady lightened with affectionate joy at his return in safety. 
As he took her in his arms and kissed her, he forgave her ere he- 
mentioned her offense. 

“ Thou hast played the knave with me, Meg,” he said, shaking 
his head, and smiling at the same time, “ and thou knowest in what 
manner; but 1 think thou ait true chuichwoman, and didst only 
act from some silly womanish fancy of keeping fair with these 
roguish Roundheads. But let me have no moie of tliis. I had 
rather IMartindale Castle were again rent by their bullets, than re- 
ceive any of the knaves in the way of friendship — 1 always except 
Ralph Bridgenorth of the Hall, if he sliould come to his sense again, • 

Lady Peveril was here under the necessity of explaining wlmt slio 
had heard of Master Bridgenorth — the aisappearance of the govern- 
ante with his daughter, and placed Bridgenorth’s letter in his hand. 
Sir Geoffrey shook his head at first, and then laughed extremely, at 
the idea that there was some little love-intrigue between Bridgenorth 
and Mistress Deborah. 

‘‘It is the true end of a dissenter,” he said, ‘‘ to marry his own 
maid-servant, or some other person’s. Deborah is a good likely 
wench, and on the merrier side of thirty, as 1 should think.” 

“Nay, nay,” said the Lady Peveril, ” you are as uncharitable as 
Ellesmere—1 believe it but to be affection to his child.” 

‘‘Pshaw! pshaw!” answered tne knight, “women are eternally 
thinking of children ; but among men, dame, many a one caresses the 
infant that he may kiss the child’s-maid ; and where’s the wonder 
or the harm either, if Bridgenorth should mairy the wencli? Her 
father is a substantial yeoman ; his family has had the same farm 
since Bosworth-field— as good a pedigree as that of the great-grand- 
son of a Chesterfield brewer, 1 t row. But let us hear what he says 
for himself. 1 shall spell it out if there is any roguery in the letter 
about love and liking, though it might escape your innocence. Dame 
Margaret. ’ ’ 

The Knight of the Peak began to peruse the letter accordingly, but 
was much embarrassed by the peculiar language in which it was. 
couched. “ What he means by moving of candlesticks, and break- 
ing down of carved work in the church,«l cannot guess; unless he 
means to bring back the large silver candlesticks which my grand- 
sire gave to be placed on the altar at Martindale- Moultrassie ; and 
which his crop-eared friends, like sacrilegious villains as they are, 
stole and melted down. And in like manner, the only breaking I 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


99 


know of, was when they pulled down the rails of the communion 
table (for which some of their fingers are -hot enough by this time), 
and when the brass ornaments were torn down from the Peveril 
monuments; and that was breaking and removing with a vengeance. 
However, dame, the upshot is, that poor Bridgenorth is going to 
leave the neighborhood. 1 am truly sorry for it, though 1 never saw 
himoltener than once a day, and never spoke to him above two 
words. But I see how it is — that little shake by the shoulder sticks 
in his stomach; and yet, Meg, 1 did but lift him out of the saddle as 
I might have lifted thee into it, Margaret. I was careful not to hurt 
him ; and 1 did not think him so tender in point of honor as to mind 
such a thing much; but 1 see plainly where liis sore lies; and 1 
warrant you I will manage that he stays at the Hall, and that you 
get back Julian's little .companion. Faith, 1 am sorry myself at the 
thought of losing the baby, and of having to choose another ride 
wdien it is not hunting w'eather, than round by the hall, with a 
word at the window.” 

” 1 should be very glad, Sir Geoffrey,” said Lady Peveril, “ that 
you could come to a reconciliation with this worthy man, for such I 
must hold Master Bridgenorth to be.” 

‘‘But for his dissenting principles, as good a neighbor as ever 
lived,” and Sir Geoffrey. 

” But I scarce see,” continued the lady, ” any possibility of bring- 
ing about a conclusion so desirable. ” 

‘‘Tush, dame,” answ^ered the knight, ‘‘thou knowest little of 
such matters. 1 know' the foot he halts upon, and )'OU shall see 
him go as sound as ever.” 

Lady Peveril had, from her sincere affection and sound sense, as 
good, a right to claim the full confidence of her husband, as any 
woman in Derbyshire; and, upon this occasion, to confess the truth, 
she had more anxiety to know his purpose than her sense of their 
mutual *and separate duties permitted her in general to entertain. 
-She could not imagine w'hat mode of reconciliation with his neigh- 
bor Sir Geoffrey (no very acute judge of mankind or their peculi- 
arities) could have devised, which might not he disclosed to her; and 
she felt some secret anxiety lest the means resorted to might be so ill 
-chosen as to render the breach rather wider. But Sir Geoffrey 
would give no opening for further inquiry. He had beeu long 
enough colonel of a regiment abroad, to value himself on the right 
of absolute command at home; and to all the hints wdiich his lady’s 
ingenuity could devise and throw out, he only answered, ‘‘ Patience, 
Dame Margaret, patience. This is no case for thy handling. Thou 
shalt know enough on’t by and by, dame. Go, look to Julian. M'ill 
the boy never have done crying for lack of that little sprout of a 
Roundhead? But w'e will have little Alice back with us in two or 
three days, and all will be well again.” 

As the good knight spoke these words, a post winded his horn in 
the court, and a large packet was brought in, addressed to the wor- 
shipful Sir Geoffrey Peveril, Justice of the Peace, and so forth; for 
he had been placed in authority as soon as the king’s restoration 
was put uix>n a settled basis. Upon opening the packet, which he 
did with no small feeling of importance, he found that it contained 
the warrant which he had solicited for replacing Dr. Dummerar iu 


100 PEVEIUL OF THE PEAK. 

the parish, from which he had been forcibly ejected during the 

usurpation.* ' • ^ ^ o 

Few- incidents could have given more delight to bir Geonrey. Me 
could forgive a stout able-bodied sectary or non-conformist, who 
enforced his doctrines in the field by downright blows on the 
casques and cuirasses of himself and other cavaliers. But he remem- 
bered, with most vindictive accuracy, the triumphant entrance of 
Hugh Peters through the breach of his castle; and for his sahe,. 
without nicely distinguishing betwixt sects or their teachers he held 
all who mounted a pulpit without warrant from the Church of Eng- 
land— perhaps he might also in private except that of Home— to be 
disturbers of the public tranquillity— seducers of the congregation 
from their lawful preachers— instigators of the late Civil War — and 
men well disposed to risk the fate of a new one. 

Then, on the other hand, besides gratifying his dislike to Sols- 
grace, he saw much satisfaction in the task of replacing his old 
fiiend and associate m sport and in danger, the worthy Dr. Dum- 
merar, in his legitimate riglits, and in the ease and comforts of his 
vicarage. He communicated the contents of the packet, with great 
triumph, to the lady, who now perceived the sense of the mysterious 
paragraph in Major Bridgenorth’s letter, concerning the removal of 
the candlestick, and the extinction of light and doctrine in the land. 
She pointed this out to Sir Geoffre}^ and endeavored to persuade 
him that a door was now opened to reconciliation with his neighbor, 
by executing the commission which he had received in an easy and 
moderate manner, after due delay, and with all respect to the feel- 
ings both of Solsgrace and his congregation, which circumstances ad- 
mitted of. This, the lady argued, would be doing no injury wdiat- 
ever to Dr. Dummerar; nay, might be the means of reconciling 
many to his ministry, who might otherwise be disgusted with it for 
ever, by the premature expulsion of a favorite preacher. 

There was much wisdom, as well as moderation, in this advice; 
and, at another time, Sir Geoffrey would have had sense enough to 
have adopted it. But who can act composedly or prudently in the 
hour of triumph? The ejection of Mr. Solsgrace was so hastily ex- 
ecuted, as to give it some appearance of persecution; though, more 
jusily considered, it was the restoring of his predecessor to his legal 
right. Solsgrace himself seemed to be desirous to make his sufferings 
as manifest as possible. He held out to the last; and on the Sabbath 
after he had received intimation of his ejection, attempted to 
make his way to the pulpit, as usual, supported by Master 
Bridgenorth’s attorney, Win-the-Fight, and a few zealous followers. 

Just as their party came into the churchyard on the one side, Dr. 
Dummerar, dressed in full pontificals, in a sort of triumphal pro- 
cession, accompanied by Peveril of the Peak, Sir Jasper Cranbourne, 
and other cavaliers of distinction, entered at the other. 

To prevent an actual struggle in the church, the parish officers 
were sent to prevent the further approach of the Presbyterian min- 
ister; which was effected without further damage than a broken 
head intiicted by Roger Raine, the drunken innkeeper of the Peveril 
Arms, upon the Presbyterian attorney of Chesterfield. 


* See Note E. Bi-eshyterian Clergy. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


101 

Unsubdued in spirit, though compelled to retreat by superior 
force, the undaunted Mr. Solsgrace retired to the vicarage ; where 
under some legal pretext which had been started by Mr, Win-the- 
Fight (in that day unaptly named), he attempted to maintain him- 
self— bolted gates — barred windows — and, as report said (though 
falsely), made provision of fire- arms to resist the officers. A scene 
of clamor and scandal accordingly took place, which being reported 
to Sir Geoffrey, he came in person, with some of his attendants car- 
rying arms — f orced the outer-gate and inner-doors of the house ; and 
proceeding to the study, found do other garrison save the Presby- 
terian parson, with the attorney, who gave up possession of the 
premises, after making protestation against the violence that had 
been used. 

The rabble of the village being by this time all in motion. Sir 
Geoffrey, both in prudence and good- nature, saw the propriety of 
escorting his prisoners, for so they might be termed, safely through 
the tumult; and accordingly conveyed them in person, through 
much noise and clamor, as far as the avenue of Moultrassie Hall, 
which they chose for the place of their retreat. 

But the absence of Sir Geoffrey gave the rein to some disorders, 
which, if present, he would assuredly have restrained. Some of the 
minister’s books were torn and flung about as treasonable and sedi- 
tious trash, by the zealous parish-officers or their assistants. A 
quantity of his ale w«s drunk up in healths to the king, and Peveril 
of the Peak. And, finally, the boys, who bore the ex-parson no 
good will for his tyrannical interference with their games at skittles, 
foot-ball, and so forth, and, moreover, remembered the unmerciful 
length of his sermons, dressed up an effigy with his Geneva gown 
and band, and his steeple-crowned hat, which they paraded through 
the village, and burnt on the spot wdiilom occupied hy a stately May- 
pole, which Solsgrace had formerly hew^ed down with his own rev- 
erent hands. 

Sir Geoffrey was vexed at all this, and sent to Mr. Solsgrace, 
offering satisfaction for the goods which he had lost; but the Cal- 
vinistical divine replied, “From a thread to a shoe-latchet, 1 will 
not take anything that is thine. Let the shame of the work of thy 
hands abide with thee.” 

Considerable scandal, indeed, arose against Sir Geoffrey Peveril 
as having proceeded with indecent severity and haste upon this oc- 
casion; and rumor took care to make the usual additions to the re- 
ality. It was currently reported, that the desperate cavalier, Peveril 
of the Peak, had fallen on a Presbyterian congregation, while en- 
gaged in the peaceable exercise of religion, with a band of armed 
men— had slain some, desperately wounded many more, and finally 
pursued the preacher to his vicarage, which he burnt to the ground. 
Some alleged the clergyman had perished in the flames; and the 
most mitigated report bore, that he had only been able to escape by^ 
disposing his gown, cap, and band, near a window, in such a man- 
ner as to deceive them with the idea of his person being still sur- 
rounded by flames, while he himself fled by the back part of tho 
house. And although few people believed in the extent of the- 
atrocities thus imputed to our honest cavalier, yet still enough of 


102 . PEYERIL OE THE PEAK, 

obloquy attached to him to infer very serious consequences, as the 
reader will learn at a future period of our history. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Bessus. ’Tis a challenge, sir, is it not? 

Gentleman. ’Tis an inviting to the field. 

King and No King. 

Eon a day or two after this forcible expulsion from the vicarage, 
Mr. Solstrace continued his residence at Moultrassie-Hall, where the 
natural melancholy attendant on his situation added to the gloom of 
the owner of the mansion. In the morning, the ejected divine 
made excursions to difterent families in the neighborhood, to whom 
his ministry had been acceptable in the days of his prosperity, and 
from whose grateful recollections of that period he now found sym- 
pathy and consolation. He did not require to be condoled with, be- 
cause he was deprived of an easy and competent maintenance, and 
thrust out upon the common of life, after he had reason to suppose 
he would be no longer liable to such mutations of fortune. The 
piety of Mr. Solsgrace was sincere; and if he had many of the un- 
charitable prejudices against other sects which polemical contro- 
versy had generated, and the Civil War brought to a head, he had 
also that deep sense of duty by which enthusiasm is so often digni- 
fied and held his very life little, if called upon to lay it down in at- 
testation of the doctrines in which he believed. But he was soon to 
prepare for leaving the district vvdiich Heaven, he conceived, had 
assigned to him as his corner of the vineyard ; he was to abandon 
his flock to the wolf— was to forsake those with whom he had held 
sweet counsel in religious communion — was to leave the recently 
converted to relapse into false doctrines, and forsake the wavering, 
whom his continued cares might have directed in the right path— 
these were of themselves deep "causes of sorrow, and were aggravat- 
ted, doubtless, by those natural feelings with which all men, especially 
those whose duties or habits have confined them to a limited circle, 
regard the separation from wonted scenes, and their accustomed 
haunts of solitary musing, or social intercourse. 

There was, indeed, a plan of placing Mi. Solsgrace at the head of 
a non-conforming congregation in his present parish, which his fol- 
lowers would have readily consented to endow with a sufllcient rev- 
enue. But although the act tor universal conformity was not yet 
passed, such a measure was understood to be impending, and there 
existed a general opinion among the Presbyterians, that in no hands 
was it likely to be more strictly enforced, than in those of Peveril of 
the Peak. Solsgrace himself considered not only his personal dan- 
ger as being considerable — for, aSvSuming perhaps more consequence 
than was actually attached to him or his productions, he conceived 
the honest knight to be his mortal and determined enemy— but he 
also conceived that he slionld serve the cause of his church by ab- 
senting himself from Derbyshire. 

“ Less known pastors,”" he said, “ though perhaps more w^orthy 
of the name, may be permitted to assemble the scattered flocks in 
caverns or in secret wilds, and to tiiem shall the gleaning of the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


103 

grapes of Ephraim be better than the vintage of Abiezer. But 
that have so often carried the banner forth against the mighty— I, 
whose tongue hath testified, morning and evening, like the watch- 
man upon the tower, against Popery, Prelac}^ and the tyrant of the 
Peak— for me to abide here, were but to bring the sword of bloody 
vengeance amongst you, that the shepherd might he smitten, and 
the sheep scattered. The shedders of blood have already assailed 
me, even within that ground which they themselves call consecrat- 
ed; and yourselves have seen the scalp of the righteous broken as- 
he defended my cause. Therefore, 1 will put on my sandals, and 
gird my loins, and depart to a far country, and there do as my duty 
shall call upon me, whether it be to act or to suffer— to bear testi- 
mony at the stake or in the pulpit.’" 

Such were the sentiments which Mr. Solsgrace expressed to his 
desponding friends, and which he expatiated upon at more length 
with Major Bridgenorth; not failing, with friendly zeal, to rebuke the 
taste which the latter had shown to thrust out the hand of fellowship 
to the Amalekite woman, whereby he reminded him, “ He had been 
rendered her slave and l)ondsman for a season, like Samson, betrayed 
by Delilah, and might have remained longer in the house of Dagon, 
had not Heaven pointed to him a way out of the snare. Also, it 
sprung origin'ally from the major’s going up to feast in the high 
place of Baal, that he who was the champion of the truth was 
stricken down, and put to shame by the enemy, even in the presence 
of the host.” 

These objurgations seeming to give some offense to Major Bridge- 
north, who liked, no better than any other man, to hear of his own 
mishaps, and at the same time to have them imputed to his own 
misconduct, the wmrthy divine proceeded to take shame to himself 
for his own sinful compliance in that matter; tor to the vengeance 
'justly due for that unhappy dinner atMartindale Castle (which was, 
he said, a crying of peace when there was no peace, and a dwelling 
in the tents of sin), he imputed his ejection from his living, with the 
destruction of some of his most pithy and highly prized volumes of 
divinity, with the loss of his cap, gown, and band, and a double 
hogshead of choice Derby ale. 

The mind of IMajor Bridgenorth was strongly tinged with devo- 
tional feeling, which his late misfortunes had rendered more deep 
and solemn ;^and it is therefore no wonder, that, when he heard 
these arguments urged again and again, by a pastor whom he so much 
respected, and who was now a confessor in the cause of their joint 
faith, he began to look back with disapproval on his own conduct, 
and to suspect that he had permitted himself to be seduced by grat- 
itude toward Lady Peveril, and by her special arguments in favor of 
a mutual and tolerating liberality of sentiments, into an action which 
had a tendency to compromise his religious and political principles. 

One morning, as Major Bridgenorth had wearied himself with 
several details respecting thfe arrangement of his affairs, he was re- 
posing in the leathern easy chair, beside the latticed window, a post- 
ure which, by natural association, recalled to him the memory of 
former times, and the feelings with which he was wont to expect 
the recurring visit of Sir Geoffrey, who brought him news of his 
child’s welfare— “ Surely,” he said, thinking, as it were, aloud* 


104 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

there was no sin in the kindness with which 1 then regarded that 
man.” 

Solsgrace, who was in the apartment, and guessed what passed 
through his friend’s mind, acquainted as he was with every point of 
his history, replied—” When God caused Elijah to be fed by ravens, 
while hiding at the brook Clieritli, we hear not of his fondling the 
unclean biids, whom, contrary to their ravening nature, a miracle 
compelled to minister to him.” 

“It may be so,” answered Bridgenorth, “yet the flap of their 
wings must have been gi’acious in the ear of the famished propliet, 
like the tread of his horse in mine. The ravens, doubtless, resumed 
their nature when the season was passed, and even so it has fared 
with him. Hark!” he exclaimed starting, ” 1 hear his horse’s hoof- 
tramp even now.” 

11. was seldom that the echoes of that silent house and court-yard 
were awakened by the trampling of horses, but such was now the 
case. 

Both Bridgenorth and Solsgrace were surprised at the sound, and 
even disposed to anticipate some further oppression on the part of 
government, when the major’s old servant introduced, with little 
ceremony (for his manners were nearly as plain as his master’s), a 
tall gentleman, on the further side of middle life, ^^hose vest and 
cloak, lon^ hair, slouched hat and drooping feather, announced him 
as a Cavalier. He bowed formally, but courteously, to both gentle- 
men, and said that he was ” Sir Jasper Cranbourne, charged with 
an especial message to Master Ralph Bridgenorth of Moultrassie 
Hall, by his honorable friend Sir Geoffrey Peveril of the Peak, and 
that he requested to know whether Master Bridgenorth wmuld be 
pleased to receive his acquittal of commission here or elsewhere.” 

” Anything which Sir Geoffrey Peveril can have to say to me,” 
said Major Bridgenorth, ‘‘ may be told instantl}’’, and before my 
friend, from whom 1 have no secrets.” 

” The presence of any other friend were, instead of being objec- 
tionable, the thino' in the world most to be desired,” said Sir Jasper, 
after a moment’s hesitation, and looking at Mr. Solsgrace; ” but this 
gentleman seems to be a sort of clergyman.” 

”1 am not conscious of any secrets,” answered Bridgenorth, 
” nor do 1 desire to have any, in which a clergyman is an unfitting 
confidant.” 

” At j’our pleasure,” replied Sir Jasper. ‘‘ The confidence, for 
aught 1 know% may be well enough chosen, for your divines (always 
under your favor) have proved no enemies to such matters as 1 am 
to treat with you upon.” 

” Proceed, sir,” answered Mr. Bridgenorth, gravely; ” and 1 pray 
you to be seated, unless it is rather your pleasure to stand.” 

” 1 must, in the first place, deliver myself of my small commis- 
sion,” answered Sir Jasper, drawing himself up; “and it will be 
after I have seen the reception thereof, that 1 shall know whether I 
am, or am not, to sit down at Moultrassie Hall. Sir Geoffrey Pev- 
•eril. Master Bridgenorth, hath carefully considered with himself the 
unhappy circumstances which at present separate you as neighbors. 
And he remembers many passages in former times — I speak his very 
words— which incline him to do all that can possibly consist with 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


105 

his honor, lo wipe out unkindness between you; and for this desir- 
able object, he is willing to condescend in a degree, which, as you 
could not have expected, it will no doubt give you great pleasure to 
lerfrn.” 

“ Allow me to say. Sir Jasper,” said Bridgenorth, “ that this is 
unnecessary. 1 have made no complaints of Sir Geoflrey— 1 have 
required no submission from him— 1 am about to leave this country,* 
and what affairs we may have together can be as well settled by 
others as by ourselves.” 

“In a word,” said the divine, “the worthy Major Bridgenorth 
hath had enough of tratfickingwith the ungodly, and will no longer, 
on any terms, consort with them.” 

“ Gentlemen both,” said Sir Jasper, with imperturbable politeness, 
bowing, “you greatly mistake the tenor of my commission, which 
you will do as well to hear out, before making any reply to it. I 
think. Master Bridgenorth, you cannot but remember your letter to 
the Lady Peveril, of which 1 have here a rough copy, in which you 
complain of the hard measure which you have received at Sir Geof- 
frey’s hand, and in particular, when he pulled you from your horse 
at or near Hartleynick. Now, Sir Geoffrey thinks so well of you, 
as to believe, that, %vere it not for the wide difference betwdxt his- 
descent and rank and your own, you would have sought to bring 
this matter to a gentleman-like arbitrament, as the only mode- 
whereby your stain may be honorably wiped away. AVherefore, in- 
this slight note, he gives you, in his generosity, the o0er of what 
you, in your modesty (for to nothing else does he impute your ac- 
quiescence), have declined to demand of him. And withal, I bring 
you the measure of his weapon; and when .you have accepted the 
cartel which I now offer you, 1 shall be ready to settle the time, 
place, and other circumstances of your meeting. ’ 

“ And 1,** said Solsgrace, wdth a solemn voice, “ should the Au- 
thor of Evil tempt my friend to accept of so bloodthirsty a proposal, 
would be the first to pronounce against him sentence of the greater- 
excommunication. ” 

“ It is not you whom 1 address, reverend sir,” replied the envoy; 
“your interest, not unnaturally, may determine you to be more 
anxious about your patron’s life than about his honor. 1 must 
know from himself to which he is disposed to give the preference.” 

So saying, and with a graceful bow, he again tendered the chal- 
lenge to Major Bridgenorth. There was obviously a struggle in that 
gentleman’s bosom between the suggestions of human honor and 
those of religious principle; but the latter prevailed. He calmly- 
waved receiving the paper which Sir Jasper offered to him, and 
spoke to the following purpose: “ It may not be known to you. Sir 
Jasper, that since the general pouring out of Christian light upon 
this kingdom, many solid men have been led to doubt whether the 
shedding human blood by the hand of a fellow-creature be in aii'ir 
respect justifiable. And although this rule appears to me to be 
scarcely applicable to our state in this stage of trial, seeing that sucL 
non-resistance, if general, would surrender our civil and religious 
rights into the hands of whatsoever daring tyrants might usurp the 
same; yet 1 am, and have been, inclined to limit the use of carnal 
arms to the case of necessary self-defense, whether such regards ou?: 


:306 PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 

own person, or tlie protection of our country against invasion ; or of 
our rights of properly, and the freedom of our laws and of our con- 
science, against usurping power. And as 1 have never shown my- 
self unwilling to draw my sword in any of the latter causes, so you 
shall excuse mj" suffering it now to remain in the scabbard, when, 
having sustained a grievous injury, the man who inflicted it sum- 
mons me to combat, either upon an idle punctilio, or, as is more 
likely, in mere bravado.’’ 

“ 1 have heard you with patience,” said Sir Jasper; ” and now, 
Alaster Bridgenorth, take it not amiss, if 1 beseech you to bethink 
yourself better on this matter. 1 vow to Heaven* sir, that your 
honor lies a-bleeding; and that in condescending to afford you this 
fair meeting, and thereby giving you some chance to stop its wounds, 
•Sir Geoffrey has been moved by a tender sense of your condition, 
^md an earnest wish to redeem your dishonor. And it will be but 
the crossing of your blade with his honored sword for the space of 
some few minutes, and you will either live or die a noble and hon- 
ored gentleman. Besides, that the knight’s exquisite skill of fence 
may enable him, as his good nature will incline him, to disarm you 
with some flesh -wound, little to the damage of your person, and 
greatly to the benefit of your reputation.” 

” The tender mercies of the wicked,” said Master Solsgrace, em- 
phatically, by w-ay of commenting on this speech, which Sir Jasper 
had uttered very pathetically, ” are cruel.” 

” 1 pray to have no further interruption from your reverence,” 
;said Sir Jasper; ” especially as 1 think this affair very little concerns 
you; and I entreat that you permit me to discharge myself regularly 
of my commission frorn my worthy friend.” 

So saying, he took his sheathed rapier from his belt, and passing 
the point through the silk thread which secured the letter, he once 
more, and literally at sword-point, gracefully tendered it to Major 
Bridgenorth, who again waved it aside, though coloring deeply at 
the same time, as if he was putting a marked constraint upon him- 
self — drew back, and made Sir Jasper Cranbourne a deep bow. 

” Since it is to be thus,” said Sir Jasper, “ 1 must myself do vio- 
lence to the seal of Sir Geoffrey’s letter, and read it to you, that 1 
may fully acquit myself of the charge intrusted to me, and make 
you. Master Bridgenorth, equally aware of the generous intentions 
of Sir Geoffrey on your behalf.” 

“If,” said Major Bridgenorth, ” the contents of the letter be to no 
•other purpose than you have intimated, methinks further ceremony' 
is unnecessary on this occasion, as I have already taken my course.” 

” Nevertheless,” said Sir Jasper, breaidug open the letter, “ it is 
fitting that 1 read to you the letter of my worshipful friend.” And 
lie read accordingly as follows: — 

For the worthy hands of Faljjh Bridgenmdh, Esquire, 
of Moiiltrassie Hall — These: 

By the honored conveyance of the Worshipful Sir Jasper Cran- 
bourne, Knight, of Long-Mallington. 

“ Master Bridgenorth, — We have been given to understand by 
your letter to our loving wife, Dame Margaret Peveril, that you hold 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


lor 

hard construct ion of certain passages betwixt you and me, of a late 
date, as if your honor should have been, lu some sort, prejudiced by 
what then took place. And although you have not thought it tit to 
have direct recourse to me, to request such satisfaction as is due 
from one gentleman of condition to another, yet 1 am fully minded 
that this proceeds only from modesty, arising out of the distinction 
of our degree, and from no lack of that courage which you have 
heretofore displayed, 1 would 1 could say in a good cause. Where- 
fore 1 am purposed to give you, by my friend Sir Jasper Cran- 
bourne, a meeting, for the sake of doing that which doubtless you 
entirely long for. Sir Jasper will deliver you the length of my 
weapon, and appoint circumstances and an hour for our meeting; 
which, whether early or late — on foot or horseback — with rapier or 
backsword— 1 refer to yourself, with all the other privileges of a 
challenged person; only desiring, that if you decline to match my 
weapon, you will send me forthwith the length and breadth of your 
own. And nothing doubting that the issue of this meeting must 
needs be to end, in one way or other, all unkindness betwixt two 
near neighbors, 

“ 1 remain, 

“ Your humble servant to command, 

“ Geoffrey Peyeril of the Peak. 

“ Given from my poor house of Martindale Castle, this same 

of , sixteen hundred and sixty.” 

“Bear back my respects to Sir Geoffrey Peveril,” said Major 
Bridgenorth. “ According to his light, his meaning may be fair to- 
ward me; but tell him that our quarrel had its rise in his owm will- 
ful aggression toward me; and that though 1 wish to be in charity 
with all mankind, 1 am not so wedded to his friendship as to break 
the laws of God, and run the risk of suffering or committing mur- 
der, in order to regain it. And for 3^ou, sir, methinks your advanced 
years and past misfortunes might teach you the folly of coming on 
such idle errands.” 

“ 1 shall do your message. Master Ralph Bridgenorth,” said Sir 
Jasper; “ and shall then endeavor to forget your name, as a sound 
unfit to be pronounced, or even remembered, by a man of honor. In 
the meanwhile, in return for your uncivil advice, be pleased to ac- 
cept of mine; namely, that as your religion prevents your giving a 
gentleman satisfaction, it ought to make you very cautious of offer- 
ing him provocation.” 

So saying, and with a look of haughty scorn, first at the major 
and then at the divine, the envoy of Sir Geoffrey put his hat on his 
head, replaced his rapier in its belt, and left the apartment. In a 
few minutes afterward, the tread, of his horse died away at a con- 
siderable distance. 

Bridgenorth had held his hand upon his brow ever since his de- 
parture, and a tear of anger and shame was on his face as he raised 
it when the sound was heard no more. “ He carries this answer to 
Martindale Castle,” he said. “ Men will hereafter think of me as a 
whipped, beaten, dishonorable fellow, whom every one may baffle 
and insult at their pleasure. It is well I am leaving the house of 
my father.’' 


108 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Master Solsgrace approached his friend ^vith much sympathy, and 
grasped him by the hand. “ Noble brother,” he said, with unwonted 
kindness of manner, ” though a man of peace, 1 can judge what this 
saciifice hath cost to thy manly spirit. But God will not have from 
us an imperfect obedience. We must not, like Ananias and Sap- 
phira, reserve behind some darling lust, some favorite sin, while we 
pretend to make sacrifice of our worldly affections. What availa it 
to say that we have but secreted a little matter, if the slightest rem- 
nant of the accursed thing remain hidden in our tent? Would it be 
n, defense in thy prayers to say, 1 have not murdered this man for 
the lucre of gain, like a robber — nor for the acquisition of power, 
like a tyrant— nor for the gratification of revenge, like a darkened 
savage; but because the imperious voice of worldly honor said, ‘ Go 
forth — kill or be killed— is it not I that have sent thee?’ ^ Bethink 
thee, my worthy friend, how thou couldst frame such a vindication 
in thy prayers ; and if thou art forced to tremble at the blasphemy 
of such an excuse, remember in thy prayers the thanks due to 
Heaven, which enabled thee to resist the strong temptation.” 

“ Reverend and dear friend,” answered Bridgenorth, “ 1 feel that 
you speak the truth. Bitterer, indeed, and harder, to the old Adam, 
is the text which ordains him to suffer shame, than that which bids 
him to do valiantly for the truth. But happy am 1 that my path 
through the wilderness of this world will, for some space at least, be 
along with one whose zeal and friendship are so active to support 
me when 1 am fainting in tbe way.” 

While the inhabitants ot Moultrassie Hall thus communicated 
together upon the purport of Sir Jasper Craiibourne’s visit, that 
worthy knight greatly excited the surprise of Sir Geoffrey Peveril, 
by rep*orting the manner in which his embassy had been received. 

” 1 took him for a man of other metal,” said Sir Geoffrey; “ nay, 
1 would have sworn it, had any one asked my testimony. But there 
is no making a silken purse out of a sow’s ear. 1 have done a folly 
lor him that 1 will never do for another: and that is, to think a 
Presbyterian would fight witnout his preacher’s permission. Give 
them a two hours’ sermon, and let them howl a psalm to a tune that 
is worse than the cries of a fiogged hound, and the villains will lay 
on like threshers; but for a calm, cool, gentleman-like turn upon 
the sod, hand to hand, in a neighborly way, they have not honor 
enough lo undertake it. But enough of our cropeared cur of a 
neighbor. Sir Jasper, you will tarry with us to dine, and see how 
Dame Margaret’s kitchen smokes; and after dinner 1 will show you 
a long-winged falcon fiy. She is not mine, but the countess’s, who 
brought her from London on her fist almost the whole way, for all 
the haste she was in, and left her with me to keep'the perch for a 
season.” 

This match was soon arranged, and Dame Margaret overheard 
the good knight’s resentment mutter itself off, with those feelings 
with which we listen to the last growling ot the thunder-storm; 
which, as the black cloud sinks beneath the hill, at once assures us 
that there has been danger, and that the peril is over. She could 
not, indeed, but marvel in her own mind at the singular path of 
reconciliation, with his neighbor which her husband had, with so 
much confidence, and in the actual sincerity of his good-will to Mr. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


109 

Bridgenorth, attempted to open; and she blessed God internally that 
it had not terininated in bloodshed. But these reflections she locked 
carefully within her own bosom, well knowing that they referred to 
subjects in which the Knight of the Peak would neither permit his 
sa^oity to be called in question, nor his will to be controlled. 

The progress of the history hath hitherto been slow ; but after this 
period so little matter worthy of mark occurred at Martindale, that 
we must hurry over hastily the transactions of several years. 


CHAPTER X. 

Cleopatra. Give me to drink mandragora, 

That I may sleep away this gap of time. 

Antony and Cleopatra. 

There passed, as we hinted at the conclusion of the last chapter, 
four or flve years after the period we have dilated upon; the events 
of which scarcely require to be discussed, so far as our present pur- 
pose is concerned, in as many lines. The knight and his lady con- 
tinued to reside at their castle — she, with prudence and with 
patience, endeavoring to repair the damages which the civil wars 
had inflicted upon tndir fortune; and murmuring a little when her 
plans of economy were interrupted by the liberal hospitality, which 
was her husband’s principal expense, and to which he was attached, 
not only from his own English heartiness of disposition, but from 
ideas of maintaining the dignity of his ancestry — no less remarkable, 
according to the tradition of their buttery, kitchen, and cellar, for 
the fat beeves which they roasted, and the mighty ale which they 
brewed, than for their extensive estates, and the number of their re- 
tainers. 

The world, however, upon the whole, went happily and easily with 
the worthy couple. Sir Geoffrey’s debt to his neighbor Bridgenorth 
continued, it is true, unabated; but he was the only creditor upon the 
Alartindale estate — all others being paid off. It would have^been 
most desirable that this incumbrance also should be cleared, and it 
was the great object of Dame Margaret’s econom}^ to effect the dis- 
charge; for although interest was regularly settled with Master 
Win-the-Fight, the Chesterfield attorney, yet the principal sum, 
which was a large one, might be called for at an inconvenient time. 
The man, too, was gloomy, important, and mysterious, and always 
seemed as if he was thinking upon his broken head in the church- 
yard of Martindale cum Moultrassie. 

Dame Margaret sometimes transacted the necessary business with 
him in person; and when he came to the castle on these occasions, 
she thought she saw a malicious and disobliging expression in his 
manner and countenance. Yet his actual conduct was not only 
fair, but liberal; for indulgence was given,_in the way of delay of 
payment, whenever circumstances rend^ered it necessary to the debtor 
to require it. It seemed to Lady Peveril that the agent, in such 
cases, was acting under the strict orders of his absent employer, con- 
cerning whose w'elfare she could not help feeling a certain anxiety. 

Shortly after the failure of the singular negotiation for attaining 
peace by combat, which Peveril had attempted to open with Slajor 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


110 

Brklgenorth, that gentleman left his seat of Moultrasste Hall in the 
care of his old housekeeper, and departed, no one knew whither, 
having m company with him his daughter Alice and Mrs. Deborah 
Debbilch, now formerly installed in all the duties of a govemante; 
to these was added the Reverend Master Solsgrace. For some time 
public rumors persisted in asserting that Major Bridgenorth had 
only retieated to a distant part of the country for a season, to 
achieve his supposed purpose of marrying Mrs. Deborah, and of 
letting the news be cold, and the laugh of the neighborhood bo , 
ended, ere he brought her down as mistress of Moultrassie Hall. 
This rumor died away ; and it was then affirmed, that he had re- 
moved to foreign parts, to insure the continuance of health in so 
delicate a constitution as that of little Alice. But when the major’s 
dread of Popery was remembered, together with the still deeper 
antipathies of worthy Master Nehemiah Solsgrace, it was resolved 
unanimously, that nothing less than what they might deem a fair 
chance of converting the Pope would have induced the parties to 
trust themselves witliin Catholic dominions. The most prevailing 
opinion was, that they had gone to New England, the refuge then of 
many whom too intimate concern with the affiaiis of the late times, 
or the desire of enjoying uncontrolled freedom of conscience,' had 
induced to emigrate from Britain. 

Lady Peveril could not help entertaining a vague idea that 
Bridgenorth was not so distant. The extreme order in which every- 
thing was maintained at Moultrassie Hall, seemed — no disparage- 
ment to the care of Dame Dickens the housekeeper, and the other 
persons engaged — to argue that the master’s eye was not so very far 
off, but that its occasional inspection might be apprehended. It is 
true, that neither the domestics nor the attorney answered any ques- 
tions respecting the residence of Master Bridgenorth; but there was 
an air of mystery about them when interrogated, that seemed to 
argue more than met the ear, 

About five years after Master Bridgenorth had left the country, a 
singular incident took place. Sir Geoffrey was absent at the Chester- 
field races, and Lady Peveril, who was in the habit of walking 
around every part of the neighborhood unattended, or only accom- 
panied by Ellesmere, or her little boy, had gone down one evening 
upon a charitable errand to a solitary hut, whose inhabitant lay sick 
of a fever, which was supposed to be infectious. Lady Peveril 
never allowed apprehensions of this kind to stop “ devoted charita- 
ble deeds;” but she did not choose to expose either her son or her 
attendant to the risk which she herself, in some confidence that she 
knew precautions for escaping the danger, did not hesitate to 
incur. 

Lady Peveril had set out at a late hour in the evening, and the 
way proved longer than she expected — several circumstances also oc- 
curred to detain her at the hut of her patient. It was a broad 
autumn moonlight, when she prepared to return homeward through 
the broken glades and upland which divided her from the castle. 
This she considered as a matter of very little importance, in so quiet 
and sequestered a country, where the road lay chiefly through her 
own domains, especially as she had a lad about fifteen years old, the 
son of her patient, to escort her on the way. The distance was bet- 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Ill 


ter tlian two miles, but might be considerably abridged by passing 
through an avenue lelonging to the estate of Moultrassie Hall, 
which she had avoided as she came, not from the ridiculous rumors 
which pronounced it to be haunted, but because her husband was 
much displeased when any attempt was made to render the walks of 
the Castle and Hall common to the inhabitants of both. The good 
lady, in consideration, perhaps, of extensive latitude allowed to her 
in the more imiwrtant concerns of the family, made a point of never 
interfering with her husband’s whims or prejudices; and it is a 
compromise which we would heartily recommend to all managing 
matrons of our acquaintance; for it is surprising how much real 
power will be cheerfully resigned to the fair sex, for the pleasure of 
being allowed to ride one’s hobby in peace and quiet.. 

Upon the present occasion, however, although the Dobby’s Walk* 
was within the inhibited domains of the Hall, the Lady reveril de- 
termined to avail herself of it, for the purpose of shortening her road 
home, and she directed her steps accordingly. But when the peas- 
ant boy, her companion, who had hitherto followed her, whistling 
cheerily, with a hedge-bill in his hand, and his hat on one side, per- 
ceived that she turned to the stile which entered to the Dobby’s 
W-alk, he showed symptoms of great fear, and at length, coming to 
the lady’s side, petitioned her, in a whimpering tone, “ Don’t ye now 
— don’t ye now, my lady, don’t ye go yonder.” 

Lady Peveril, observing that his \eeth chattered in his head, and 
that his w'hole person exhibited great signs of terror, began to recollect 
the report, that the first Squire of Moultrassie, the brewer of Chester- 
field, who had bought the estate, and then died of melancholy for lack 
of something to do (and, as was said, not without suspicions of sui- 
cide), was supposed to walk in this sequestered avenue, accompanied 
by a large headless mastiff, which, w^hen he was alive, was a partic- 
ular favorite of the ex-brewer. To have expected any protection 
from her escort, in the condition to which superstitious fear had re- 
duced him, would have been truly a hopeless trust ; and Lady Peveril, 
who was not apprehensive of any danger, thought there would be 
great cruelty in dragging the cow^ardly boy into a scene which he 
regarded with so much apprehension. She gave him, therefore, a 
silver piece, and permitted him to return. The latter boon seemed 
even more acceptable than the first; for eie she conld return the 
purse into her pocket she heard the wooden clogs of her bold convoy 
1 in full retreat, by the way from whence they came. 

Smiling within herself at the fear she esteemed so ludicrous. Lady 
Peveril ascended the stile, and was soon hidden from the broaa light 
of the moon-beams, by the numerous and entangled boughs of the 
huge elms, wfiiich, meeting from either side, totally overarched the 
old avenue. The scene was calculated to excite solemn thoughts; 
and the distant glimmer of a lidit from one of the numerous case- 
ments in front ol Moultrassie Hall, which lay at some distance, w^as 
calculated to make them even melancholy. She thought of the fate 
of that family— of the deceased Mrs. Bridgenorth, with w^hom she 
had often walked in this very avenue, and wdio, though a woman of 
no high parts or accomplishments, had always testified the deepest 


* Dobby an old English name for goblin. 


PEVERIL OF THE - PEAK. 


112 

respect, and tlie most earnest gratitude, for such notice as she had 
shown to her. She thought of her blighted hopes — her premature 
death — the despair of her«self-banished husband — the uncertain fate 
of their oiphau child, for whom she felt, even at this distance of 
time, some touch of a mother’s affection. 

Upon such sad subjects her thoughts were turned, when, Just as 
she attained the middle of the avenue, the imperfect and checkered 
light which found its way through the sylvan archway, showed her 
somethiug which resembled the figure of a man. Lady Peveril 
paused a moment, but instantly advanced; — her bosom, perhaps, 
gave one startled throb, as a debt to the superstitious belief of the 
times, but she instantly repelled the thought of supernatural appear- 
ances. From tliose that were merely mortal, she had notliing to- 
fear. A marauder on the game was the worst character whom she 
was likely to encounter; and he would be sure to hide himself from 
her observation. She advanced, accordingly, steadily; and, as she 
did so, had the satisfaction to observe, that the figure, as she expect- 
ed, gave place to her, and glided away amongst the trees on the left- 
hand side of the avenue. As she passed the spot on which the form 
had been so lately visible, and bethought herself that this wanderer 
of the night might, nay, must, be in her vicinity, her resolution, 
could not prevent her mending her pace, and that with so little pre- 
caution, that, stumbling over the limb of a tree, which, twisted off 
by a late tempest, still lay in the avenue, she fell, and, as she fell,, 
screamed aloud. A stiong hand in a moment afterward added to 
her fears by assisting her to rise, and a voice, to whose accents she 
was not a stranger, though they had been long unheard, said,. “ Is it. 
not you. Lady Peveril?” 

“ It is 1,” said she, commanding her astonishment and fear; “ and 
if my ear deceive me not, I speak to Master Bridgenorth.” 

” 1 was that man,” said he, “ while oppression left me a name.,’*' 

He spoke nothing more, but continued to walk beside her for a- 
minute or two in silence. She felt her situation embarrassing; and, 
to divest it of that feeling, as well as out of real interest in the ques- 
tion, she asked him, ” How her god daughter Alice now was?” 

” Of god-daughter, madam,” answered Major Bridgenorlh, ‘'1 
know nothing; that being one of the names which have been intix)- - 
duced, to the corruption and pollution of God’s ordinances. The; 
infant who owed to your ladyship (so called) her escape from disease 
and death, is a healthy and thriving girl, as I am given to understand 
by those in whose charge she is lodged, for 1 have not lately seen her. 
And it is even the recollection of these passages, which in a manner 
impelled me, alarmed also by your fall, to offer myself to you at this; 
time and mode, which in other respects is no way consistent with 
my present safety.” 

” With your safet}^ Master Bridgenorth?” said the Lady Peveril* 

” surely, 1 could never have thought that it was in danger!” ’ 

” You have some news, then, yot to learn, madam,” said Major 
Bridgenorth; “ but you will hear, in the course of to-morrow, 
reasons why 1 dare not appear openly in the peighborhood of my 
own property, and wherefore there is small judgi^ient in committing 
the knowledge of my present residence to any one connected with 
Mart indale Castle.” 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


113 


'* Master JBridgenorth,” said the lady, “ you were in former times 
prudent and cautious — 1 hope you have been misled by no hasty im* 
pression — by no rash scheme — I hope — ” 

“ Pardon my interrupting you, madam,” said Bridgenorth. “ I 
have indeed been changed — ay, my very heart within me hath been 
changed. In the times to which your ladyship (so called) thinks 
proper to refer, 1 was a man of this world — bestowing on it all my 
thoughts — all my actions, save formal observances — little deeming: 
what wms the duty of a Christian man, and how far his self denial 
ought to extend — even unto his giving all as if he gave nothing. 
Hence 1 thought chiefly on carnal things— on the adding of field to 
field, and wealth to w^eallh — of balancing between party and party — 
securing a friend here, without losing a friend there. But Heaven 
smote me for my apostasy, the rather that I abused the name of re- 
ligion, as a Self-seeker, and a most blinded and carnal will-worshiper,. 
But 1 thank Him who hath at length brought me out of Egypt*” 

In our day — although we have many instances of enthusiasm 
among us-— we might still suspect one who avowed it thus suddenly 
and broadly, of hj^iocrisy, or of insanity ; but, according to the fash- 
ion of the times, such opinions as those which Bridgenorth expressed,, 
were openly pleaded, as the ruling motives of men’s actions. The; 
sagacious Vane — the brave and skillful Harrison — were men whoi 
acted avowedly under the influence of such. Lady Peveril, there- 
fore, was more grieved than surprised at the language she heard 
Major Bridgenorth use, and reasonably concluded that the society 
and circumstances in which he might lately have been engaged, had 
blown into a flame the spark of eccentricity wnich always smoldered 
in his bosom. This was the more probable, considering that he was. 
melancholy by constitution and descent — that he had been unfortu- 
nate in several particulars— and that no passion is more easily nursed 
by indulgence than the species of enthusiasm of which he now 
showed tokens. She therefore answered him by calmly hoping, 
“ That the expression of his sentiments had not involved him in sus- 
picion oi in danger, ” 

“In suspicin^^ inadam?” answered the major ; “ for X cannot for- 
bear giving to you, such is the strength of habit,, one- of those idle' 
titles by which we poor potsherds are wont, in our pride, to denom- 
inate each other— 1 walk not only in suspicion, but in that degree of 
danger, that, were your husband to meet me at this instant— me, a 
native Englishman, treading on my own lands — 1 have no doubt he 
would do his best to offer me to the Moloch of Roman superstition,, 
who now rages abroad for victims among God’s people.” 

“ You surprise me by your language. Major Bridgenorth,” said 
the lady, who now felt rather anxious to be relieved from his com- 
pany, and wulh that purpose walked on somew^hat hastily. He 
mended his pace, how^ever, and kept close by her side. 

“ Know you not,” said he, “that Satan hath comedown upon 
earth with great wwath, because his time is short? The next heir to 
the crown is an avowed Papist; and who dare assert, save sycophants 
and time-servers, that he who wears it is not equally ready to sloop- 
to Rome, were he not kept in awe by a few noble spirits in the Com- 
mons House? You believe not this— yet in my solitary and mid- 
night walks, when 1 thought on your kindness to the dead and to? 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


114 

Ihe living, it was my prayer that 1 might have the means granted to 
warn you — and lo! Ileaven hath heara me.” 

” Major Bridgenorlli,” said Lady Peyeril, ” you were wont to he 
moderate in these sentiments — comparatively moderate, at least, and 
to love your own leligion, without hating that of others.” 

” What 1 was while in the gall of bitterness and in the bond of 
iniquity, it signifies not to recall,” answered he. ” 1 was then like 
to Gallio, who cared for none of these things. 1 doted on creature- 
comforts — 1 clung lo worldly honor and repute — my thoughts were 
■earthward — or those I turned to Heaven were cold, formal, Pharisa- 
ical meditations — 1 brought nothing totlie altar save straw and stub- 
ble. Heaven saw need to chastise me in love — 1 was stripped of all 
that I clung to on earth— my worldly honor was torn from me— 1 
went forth an exile from the home of my fathers, a deprived and 
desolate man — a baffled, and beaten, and dishonored man. But who 
shall find out the ways of Providence? Such W'ere the means by 
which 1 was chosen forth as a champion for the truth — holding my 
life as nothing, it thereby that may be advanced. But this was not 
what 1 wished to speak of. Thou hast saved the earthly life of my 
child— let me save the eternal welfare of yours.” 

Lady Peveril was silent. They were now approaching the point 
where the avenue terminated in a communication with a public road, 
■or rather pathway, running through an uninclosed common field; 
this the lady had to prosecute for a little way, until a turn of the 
path gave her admittance into the Park of Martindale. She now felt 
sincerely anxious to be in the open moonshine, and avoided reply to 
Bridgenorth that she might make the more haste. But as they 
reached the junction of the avenue and the public road, he laid his 
.hand on her* arm, and commanded rather than requested her to stop. 
She obeyed. He pointed to a huge oak, of the largest size, wdiich 
grew on the summit of a knoll in the open ground which terminated 
the avenue, and was exactly so placed as to serve tor a termination 
to the vista. The moonshine without the avenue was so strong, 
that, amidst the flood of light which it poured on the venerable tree, 
they could easily discover, from the shattered state of the boughs on 
one side, that it had suffered damage from lightning. ” Kemember 
you,” he said, ” when we last looked together on that tree? 1 had 
ridden from London, and brought with me a protection from the 
committee for your husband; and as 1 passed the spot — here on this 
spot where we*now stand, you stood with my lost Alice- -two — the 
last two of my beloved infants gamboled before you. I leaped from 
my horse — lo her I was a husband — to those a father — to you a wel- 
come and revered protector — What am 1 now to anyone?” He 
pressed his hand on his brow, and groaned in agony of spirit. 

It was not in the Lady Peveril’s nature to hear sorrow without an 
attempt at consolation. ‘‘ Master Bridgenorth,” shesaid, ” 1 blame 
no man’s creed, while I believe and follow my own; and X rejoice 
that in yours j^ou have sought consolation for temporal afflictions. 
But does not every Christian creed teach us alike, that affliction 
should soften our heart?” 

“Ay, woman,” said Bridgenorth, sternly, “as the lightning 
which shattered yonder oak hath softened its trunk. Ko; the seared 
wood is the fitter foi the use of the workmen— the hardened and the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


115 


dried-up heart is lhat Ts^hich can best bear the task imposed by these 
dismal times. God and man will no longer endure the unbridled 
profligacy of the dissolute — the scoffing of the profane — the con- 
tempt of the diviue laws — the inf raction . of human rights. The 
times demand right ers and avengers, and there will be no want of 
them. ’ ’ 

“1 deny not the existence of much evil,” said Lady Peveril, com- 
pelling herself to answer, and beginning at the same time to walk 
forward; “and from hearsay, though not, 1 thank Heaven, from 
observation, 1 am convinced of the wild debauchery of the times. 
Hut let us trust it may be corrected without such violent remedies as 
you hint at. Surely the ruin of a second civil war — though 1 trust 
your thoughts go not that dreadful length — were at best a desperate 
alternative. ” » • 

“ Sharp, but sure,” replied Bridgenorth. “The blood of the 
Paschal lamb chased away the destroying angel — the sacrifices 
offered on the threshing-floor of Araunah, stayed the pestilence. 
Fire and sword are severe remedies, but they purge and purify.” 

“ Alas! Major Bridgenorth,” said the lady, “wise and moderate 
in your youth, can you have adopted in your advanced life the 
thoughls and language of those whom you yourself beheld drive 
themselves and the nation to the brink of ruin?” 

“ 1 know not what 1 then was — you know not what I now' am,” 
he replied, and suddenly broke oft; for they even then came forth 
into the open light, and it seemed as if, feeling himself under the 
lady’s eye, he was disposed to soften hfs tone and his language. 

At the first distinct view which she had of his person, she was 
aware that he was armed with a short sword, a poniard, and pistols 
at his belt — precautions very unusual for a man who formerly had 
seldom, and only on days of ceremony, carried a walking rapier, 
though such was the habitual and constant practice of gentlemen of 
his station in life. There seemed also something of more stern de- 
termination than usual in his air, which indeed had always been 
rather sullen than affable; and ere she could repress the sentuneut, 
she could not help saying, “ Master Bridgenorth, you are Indeed 
changed. ’ ’ 

“ You see but the outward man,” he replied; “ the change within 
is yet deeper. But it was not of myself that 1 desired to talk— 1 
have already said, that as you have preserved my child from the 
darkness of the grave, 1 would willingly- preserve yours from that 
more utter darkness, which, 1 fear, hath involved the path and 
walks of his father. ” 

“ 1 must not hear this of Sir Geoffrey,” said the Lady Peveril ; 
“ I must bid farewell for the present; and when we again meet 
at a more suitable time, 1 will at least listen to your advice concern- 
ing Julian, although 1 should not perhaps incline to it.” 

“ That more suitable time may never come,” replied Bridgenorth. 
“ Time wanes, eternity draws nigh. Hearken! It is said to he your 
purpose to send the young Julian to be bred up in yonder bloody 
island, under the hand of your kinswoman, that ciuel murderess, 
by whom was done to death a man more worthy of vital existence 
than any that she can boast among her vaunted ancestry. These 
are current tidings — Are they true?” 


116 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ 1 do not blame you, Master Bridgenorth, for thinking harshly 
of my cousin of Derby,” said Lady Peveril; “ nor do I altogether 
vindicate the rash action of which she hath been guilty. Neverthe- 
less, in her habitation, it is my husband’s opinion and my own, that 
Julian may be trained in the studies and accomplishments becoming 
his rank, along with the young Earl of Derby.” 

Under the curse of God, and the blessing of the Pope of Rome,” 
said Bridgenorth. “You, lady, so quick-sighted in matters of 
earthly prudence, are you blind to the gigantic pace at which Rome 
is moving to regain this country, once the richest gem in her usui-ped 
tiara? The old are seduced by gold— the youth by pleasure— the 
weak by flattery — cowards by fear — and the courageous by ambition. 
A. thousand baits for each taste, and each bait concealing the same 
deadly ho6k.” 

“ 1 am well aware. Master Bridgenorth,” said Lady Peveril, “ that 
my kinsw'oman is a Catholic;* but her son is educated in the 
Church of England’s principles, agreeably to the command of her 
deceased husband.” 

“ Is it likely,” answered Bridgenorth, “ that she, who fears not 
shedding the blood of the righteous, whether on the field oi scaffold, 
will regard the sanction of her promise when her religion bids her 
break it? Or, if she does, what shall your son be the better, if he 
remain in the mire of his father? What are your Episcopal tenets 
but mere popery ! save that ye have chosen a temporal tyrant for 
your pope, and substitute a^mangled mass in English f or that which 
your predecessors pronounced in Latin. But why speak 1 of these 
things to one who hath ears, indeed, and eyes, yet cannot see, listen 
to, or understand what is alone worthy to be heard, seen, and 
known? Pity that what hath been wrought so fair and exquisite in 
form and disposition, should be yet blind, deaf, and ignorant, like 
the things which perish!” 

“We shall not agree on these subjects. Master Bridgenorth,” said 
the lady, anxious still to escape from this strange conference, though 
scarce knowing what to apprehend; “ once more, 1 must bid you 
farewell.” 

“Stay yet an instant,” he said, again laying his hand on her 
arm; “ 1 would stop you if 1 saw you rushing on the brink of an 
actual precipice — let me prevent you from a danger still greater. 
How shall 1 work upon your unbelieving mind? Shall 1 tell you 
that the debt of bloodshed yet remains a debt to be paid by the 
blood}^ house of Derby? And wilt thou send thy son to be among 
those from whom it shall be exacted?” 

“ You wish to alarm me in vain, Master Bridgenorth,” answered 
the lady; “ what penalty can be exacted from the countess, for an 
action which 1 have already called a rash one, has been long since 
levied.” 

“You deceive yourself,” retorted he, sternly. “Think you a 
paltry sum of money, given to be wasted on the debaucheries of 
Charles, can atone for the death of such a man as Christian — a man 
precious alike to heaven and to earth? Not on such terms is the 

* I have elsewhere noticed that this is a deviation from the truth— Char^ 
lotte, Countess'of Derby, was a Huguenot. 


PEYEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


117 

1)100(1 of the righteous to be poured forth 1 Every hour’s delay is 
numbered down as adding interest to the grievous debt, which will 
one day be required from that bloodthirsty woman.” 

At this moment the distant tread of horses was heard on the road 
on which they held this singular dialogue. Bridgenorth listened a 
moment, and then said, “ Forget that you have seen me — name not 
my name to your nearest or dearest — lock my counsel in your breast 
— profit by it, and it shall be well with you.” 

So saying, he turned from her, and plunging through a gap in the 
fence, regained the cover of his own -wood, along which the path 
«till led. 

The noise of horses advancing at full trot, now came nearer; and 
Lady Peveril was aware of several riders, whose forms rose indis- 
tinctly on the summit of the rising ground behind her. She became 
also visible to them ; and one or two of the foremost made toward 
her at increased speed, challenging her as they advanced with the 
cry of “ Stand! Who goes there?” The foremost who came up, 
however, exclaimed, “Mercy on us, if it be not my lady!” and 
Lady Peveril, at the same moment, recognized one of her own serv- 
ants. Her husband rode up immediately^ afterward, with, “ How 
now. Dame Margaret? What makes you abroad so far from home 
and at an hour so late?” 

Lady Peveril mentioned her visit at the cottage, but did not think 
it necessary to say aught of having seen Major Bridgenorth; afraid, 
it may be, that her husband might be displeased with that incident. 

“ Charity is a fine thing and a fair,” answered Sir Geoffrey; “ but 
I must tell you, you do ill, dame, to wander about the country like 
a quack- salver, at the call of every old woman who has a colic-fit; 
and at this time of night especially, and when the land is so unset- 
tled besides.” 

“lam sorry to hear that it is so,” said the lady’-. “ 1 had heard no 
such news.” 

“News?” repeated Sir Geoffrey; “why, here has a new plot 
broken out among the Roundheads, worse than Venner’s by a butt’s 
length;* and who should be so deep in it as our old neighbor Bridge- 
north? There is search for him every where; and 1 promise you, if 
he is found, he is like to pay old scores.” 

‘ Then 1 am sure, 1 trust he will not be found,” said Lady Peveril. 

“ Do you so?” replied Sir Geoffrey. “Now I, on my part, hope 
that he will; and it shall not be my fault if he be not; for which 
effect 1 will presently ride down to Moultrassie, and make strict 
■search, according to my duty; there shall neither rebel nor traitor 
earth so near Martindale Castle, that 1 will assure them. And you, 
ray lady, be pleased for once to dispense with a pillion, and get up, 
as you have done before, behind Saunders, who shall convey you 
safe home.” 

The lady obeyed in silence; indeed, she did not dare to trust her 
voice in an attempt to reply, so much w-as she disconcerted with the 
intelligence she had just heard. 

She rode behind the groom to the castle, where she awaited in great 


* The celebrated insurrection of the Anabaptists and Fifth Monarchy men in 
London, in the year 1661. 


118 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


anxiety llie return of her husband. He came back at length; biit^ 
to her great relief, without any prisoner, lie then explained more 
fully than his haste had before permitted, that an express had come 
down to Chesterfield, with news from Court of a purposed insurrec- 
tion amongst the old Commonwealth meu, especially those who had 
served in the army; and that Biidgeiiorth, said to be lurking in 
Derbyshire, was one of the principal conspirators. 

’ After some time, this report of a conspiracy seemed to die away, 
like many others of tnat period. The warrants were recalled, but 
nothing more was seen or heard of Major Bridgcnorth; althou,c;h it 
is probable he might safely^ enough have shown himself as openly as 
many did wlio lay under the same circumstances of suspicion.* 

About this time also. Lady Peveril, with many teais, took a tem- 
porary leave of her son Julian, who was sent, as had long been in- 
tended, for the purpose of sharing the education of the young Earl 
of Derby, Although the boding words of Bridgenorth sometimes 
occurred to Lady Peveril’s mind, she did not; suffer them to weigh 
with her in opposition to the advantages which the pationage of the 
Countess of Derby secured to her son. 

The plan seemed to be in every respect successful; and when, from 
time to time, Julian visited the house of his father. Lady Peveril 
had the satisfaction to see him, on every occasion, improved in per- 
son' and in manner, as well as ardent in the pursuit of more solid 
acquirements. In process of time, he became a gallant and accom- 
plished youth, and traveled for some time upon the continent with 
the young earl. This was the more especially necessary tor the en- 
larging ot their acquaintance with the world; because the countess 
had never appeared in London, or at the court of King Charles, 
since her flight to the Isle of Man in 1660; but had resided in soli- 
tary and aristocratic state, alternately on her estates in England and 
in that island. 

This had given to the education of both the young men, otherwise 
as excellent as the best teachers could render it, something- of a nar- 
row and restricted character; but though the disposition of the 
young earl was lighter and more volatile than that of Julian, both 
the one and the other had profited, in a considerable degree, by the 
opportunities afforded them. It was Lady Derby’s strict injunction 
to her son, now returning from the continent, that he should not 
appear at the court of Charles. But having been for some time of 
age he did not think it absolutely necessary to obey her in this par- 
ticular; and had remained for some time in London, partaking the 
pleasures of the gay court there, with all the ardor ot a young man 
bred up in comparative seclusion. 

In order to reconcile the countess to this transgression of her 
authority (for he continued to entertain for her the profound respect 
in which he had been educated). Lord Derby agreed to take a long 
sojourn with her in her favorite island, whch he abandoned almost 
entirely to her management. 

^ Julian Peveril had spent at Martindale Castle a good deal of the 
time which his friend had bestowed in London; and at the period to 
which, passing over many years, our story has arrived, as it were^ 

* See Note F.— Persecution of the Puritans. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 119 

per saltum, tliey were both living as the countess’s guests, in the 
Oastle of Rushin, in the venerable kingdom of Man. 


CHAI'TER XI. 

Mona— long hid from those who roam the main. 

Collins. 

The Isle of Man in the middle of tlie seventeenth century, was 
very different, as a place of residence, from what it is now. IMen 
had not then discovered its merit as a place of occasional refuge 
from the storms of life, and the society to be there met with was of 
a very uniform tenor. There were no smart fellows, whom fortune 
had tumbled from the seat of their barouches — no plucked pigeons, 
no winged rooks — no disappointed speculators — no ruined miners — 
in short, no one worth talking to. The society of the island was 
limited to the natives themselves, and a few merchants, who lived 
by contraband trade. The amusements were rare and monotonous, 
and the mercurial young earl was soon heartily tired of his domin- 
ions. The islanders also, become too wise for happiness, had lost 
relish for the harmless and somewhat childish sports in which their 
simple ancestors had indulged themselves. May was no longer 
ushered in by the imaginary contest between the queen of returning 
winter and advancing spring; the listeners no longer sympathized 
with the lively music of the followers of the one, or the discordant 
sounds with which the other asserted a more noisy claim to atten- 
tion. Christmas, loo, closed, and the steeples no longer jangled 
forth a dissonant peal. The wren, to seek for which used to be the 
sport dedicated to the holytide, was left unpursued and unslain. 
Party spirit had come among these simple people, and destroyed 
their good-humor, while it left them their ignorance^ Even the 
laces, a sport generally interesting to people of all ranks, were no 
longer performed, because they were no longer interesting. The 
gentlemen were divided by feuds hitherto unknown, and each 
seemed to hold it scorn to be pleased with the same diversions tliat 
amused those of the opposite faction. The hearts of both parties 
revolted from the recollection of former days, when all was peace 
among them, when the Earl of Derby, now slaughtered, used to be- 
stow the prize, and Christian, since so vindictively executed, started 
horses to add to the amusement..* 

Julian was seated in the. deep recess which led to a latticed win- 
dow of the old castle; and, with his arms crossed, and an air of pro- 
found contemplation, was surveying the long perspective of ocean, 
which rolled its successive waves up to the foot of the rock on which 
the ancient pile is founded. The earl was suffering under the in- 
fliction of ennui — now looking into a volume of Homer — now whis- 
tling— now swinging on his chair— now traversing the room— till, at 
lenglh, his attention became swallowed up in admiration of the 
tranquillity of his companion. 

“ King of men!” he said, repeating the favorite epithet by which 
Homer describes Agamemnon — “ I trust, for the old Greek’s sake. 


* See Note Q— Popular Pastimes in the Isle of Man. 


120 


PEYERIL OF THE PEJ^IT. 


he had a merrier office than being King of Man. — most philosophicaf 
Julian, will nothing rouse thee — not even a bad pun on my own- 
royal dignity?” 

”1 wish you would be a little more the King in Man,” said 
Julian, starting from his reverie, “and then you will find more 
amusement in your dominions.” 

” What! dethrone that royal Semimmis my mother,” said’ the* 
young lord, ” who has as much pleasure in playing queen as if she^* 
were a real sovereign? 1 wonder you can give me such counsel.” 

” your mother, as you well know, my dear Derby, would be de- 
lighted, did you take any interest in the attairs of the island.” 

” Ay, truly, she would permit me to be king; but she would 
choose to remain viceroy over me. Why, she would only gain a 
subject the more, by my converting my spare time, which is so very 
valuable to me, to the cares of royalty. No, no, Julian, she thinks 
it power, to direct all the affairs of these poor Manxmen ; and, think- 
ing it power, she finds it pleasure. 1 shall not interfere, unless she 
hold a high court of justice again. 1 cannot afford to pay another 
fine to my brother. King Charles — but 1 forget— this is a sore point, 
with you.” 

‘‘With the countess, at least,” replied Julian; ‘‘and I wonder 
you wiil speak of it.” 

‘‘Why, I bear no malice against the poor man’s memoiy any 
more than yourself, though I have not the same reasons for holding 
it in veneration,” replied the Earl of Derby; ” and yet 1 have some 
respect for it too. I remember their bringing him out to die — it. 
was the first holiday 1 ever had in my life, and 1 heartily wish it had 
been on some other account. ” 

‘‘ 1 would rather hear you speak of anything else, my lord,” said 
Julian. 

‘‘ Why, there it goes,” answered the earl; ‘‘whenever 1 talk of 
any thing that puts you on your mettle, and warms your blood, that 
runs as cold as a merman’s— to use a simile of this happy island — hey 
pass! you press me to change the subject. Well, what shall we talk, 
of? O Julian, it you had not gone down to earth yourself among 
the castles and caverns of Derbyshire, we should have had enough 
of delicious topics— the play houses, Julian — both the king’s house 
and the duke’s — Louis’s establishment is a jest to them; — and the: 
Ring in the Park, which beats the Corso at Naples — and the beauties,, 
who beat the whole world 1” 

“lam very willing to hear you speak on the subject, my lord,” 
answered Julian; “the less 1 have seen of the London world my- 
self, the more 1 am likely to be amused by your account of it.” 

“ Ay, my friend — but where to begin? — with the wit of Bucking- 
ham,, and Sedley, and Etherege, or with the grace of Harry Jermyn 
— the courtesy of the Duke of Monmouth, or with the loveliness of 

La Belle Hamilton — of the Duchess of Richmond— of Lady , 

the person of Roxalana, the smart humor of Mrs. Nelly .” 

‘‘ Or what say you to the bewitching sorceries of Lady Cynthia?” 
aemanded his companion. 

“ Faith, 1 would have kept these to myself,” said the earl, ” ta 
follow your prudent example. But since you ask me, 1 fairly own 
1 cannot tell what to say of them; only I think of them twenty- 


p:eveeil of the peak. 


121 

times as often as all the beauties 1 have spoken of. And yet she is 
neither the twentieth part so beautitiil as the plainest of these court 
beauties, nor so witty as the dullest 1 have named, nor so modish — 
that is the great matter— as the most obscure. 1 cannot tell what 
makes me dote on her except that she is as capricious as her whole 
sex put together.” 

“ That I should think a small recommendation,” answered his 
companion. 

” Small, do you term it,” replied the earl, “ and write yourself a 
brother of the angle? Why, which like you best? to pull a dead 
strain on a miserable gudgeon, which you draw ashore by main 
force, as the fellows here tow in their fishing- boats— or a lively 
salmon, that makes your rod crack, and your line whistle— plays 
you ten thousand mischievous pranks— wearies your heart out with 
hopes and fears— and is only laid panting on the bank, after you 
have shown the most unmatchable display of skill, patience, and 
dexterity? But 1 see you have a mind to go on angling after your 
own old fashion. Off laced coat, and on brown jerkin; — lively colors 
scare fish in the sober waters of the Isle of Man ; — faith, in London 
you will catch few, unless the bait glistens a little. But you are 
going?— well, good luck to you. 1 will take to the barge; — the sea 
and wind are less inconstant than the tide you have embarked on.” 

“You have learned to say all these smart things in London, my 
lord,” answered Julian; “but we shall have you a penitent for 
them, if Lady Cynthia be of my mind. Adieu, and pleasure till we 
meet.” 

The young men parted accordingly; and while the earl betook him 
to his pleasure voyage, Julian, as his friend had prophesied, assumed 
the dress of one who means to amuse himself with angling. The 
hat and feather were exchanged for a cap of gray cloth; the deeply- 
laced cloak and doublet for a simple jacket of the same color, with 
hose conforming; and finally, with rod in hand, and pannier at his 
back, mounted upon a handsome Manx pony, young Peveril rode 
briskly over the country which divided him from one of those beau- 
tiful sti earns, that descend to the sea from the Kirk-Merlagh mount- 
ains. 

Having reached the spot where he meant to commence his day’s 
sport, Julian let his little steed graze, which, accustomed to the 
situation, followed him like a dog; and now and then, when tired of 
picking herbage in the valley through which the stream winded, 
■came near her master’s side, and, as if she had been a curious ama- 
teur of the sport, gazed on the trouts as Julian brought them strug- 
gling to the shore. But Fairy’s master showed, on that day, little 
of the patience of a real angler, and took no heed to old Isaac Wal- 
ton’s recommendation, to fish the streams inch by inch. He chose, 
indeed, with an angler’s eye, the most promising casts, where the 
stream broke sparkling over a stone, affording the wonted shelter to 
a trout; or where, gliding away from a rippling current to a still 
eddy, it streamed under the projecting bank, or dashed from the 
pool of some low cascade. By this judicious selection of spots 
whereon to employ his art, the sportsman’s basket was soon suflS- 
ciently heavy, to show that his occupation was not a mere pretext; 
iind so soon as this was the case, he walked briskly up the glen, only 


PEVERIL OR THE PEAK. 


122 

making a cast from time to time, in case of liis being observed from 
any of the neighboring heights. 

It was a little green and rocky valley through which the brook 
strayed, very lonely, although the slight track bt an unformed road 
showed that it was occasionally traversed, and that it was not alto- 
gether void of inhabitants. As Peveril advanced still furtner, the 
right bank reached to some distance from the stream, leaving a piece 
of meadow ground, the lower part of which, being close to the 
brook, was entirely covered with rich herbage, being possibly occa- 
sionally irrigated by its overflow. The higher part of the level 
ground afforded a stance for an old house, of a singular structure, 
with a terraced garden, and a cultivated field or two beside it. In 
former times a Danish or Norwegian fastness had stood there, called 
the Black Fort, from the color of a huge heathy hill, which, rising 
behind the building, appeared to be the boundary of the valley, and 
to afford the source of the brook. But the original structure had been 
long demolished, as, indeed, it probably only consisted of dry stones, 
and its materials had been applied to the construction of the present 
mansion — the work of some churchman during the sixteenth cent- 
ury, as was evident from the huge stone-work of its windows, 
which scarce left room for light to pass through, as well as from two 
or three heavy buttresses, which projected from the front of the 
house, and exhibited on their surface little niches for images. These 
had been carefully destroyed, and pots of flowers were placed in the 
niches in their stead, beside their being ornamented by creeping 
plants of various kinds, fancifully entwined around them. The 
garden was also in good order; and though the spot was extremely 
solitary, there was about it altogether an air of comfort, accommo- 
dation, and even elegance, by no means generally characteristic of 
the habitations of the island at the time. 

With much circumspection, .lulian Peveril approached the low 
Gothic porch, which defended the entrance of the mansion from the 
tempests incident to its situation, and was, like the buttresses, over- 
run with ivy and other creeping plants. An iron ring, contrived so 
as when drawn up and down to rattle against the bar of notched iron 
through which it was suspended, served the purpose of a knocker;, 
and to this he applied himself, though with the greatest precaution. 

He received no answer for some time, and indeed it seemed as if 
the house was totally uninhabited; when, at length, his impatience 
getting the upper hand, he tried to open the door, and, as it was 
only upon the latch, very easily succeeded. He passed through a 
little low-arched hall, the upper end of which was occupied by a 
staircase, and turning to the left, opened the door of a summer 
parlor, wainscoted with black oak, and very simply furnished with 
chairs ana tables of the same materials; the former cushioned wdth 
leather. The apartmenc was gloomy — one of those stone-shafted 
windows which we have mentioned, with its small latticed rpanes, 
and thick garland of foliage, admitting but an imperfect light.*^ 

Over the chimney piece (which was of the same massive materials 
with the paneling of the apartment) was the only ornament of the 
room; a painting, namely, representing an officer in the military 
dress of the Civil Wars. It was a green jerkin, then the national 
and peculiar wear of the Manxmen; his short band which hung 


PEVEIIIL OF THE PEAK. 


123 

down on the cuirass— the orange-colored scarf, but, above all, the 
shortness of his close-cut hair, showing evidently to which of the 
great parties he had belonged. His right hand rested on the hilt of 
his sw’ord; and in the left he held a small Bible, bearing the inscrip- 
tion, “ In hoc signo.” The countenance was of a light complexion, 
with fair and almost effeminate blue eyes, and an oval form of face — 
one of those physiognomies, to which, though not otherwise un- 
pleasing, we naturally attach the idea of melancholy and of misfort- 
une.* Apparently it was well known to J ulian Peveril ; for, after 
having looked at it for a long time, he could not forbear muttering 
aloud, “ What would 1 give that that man had never been born, or 
that he still lived!” 

” How now— how is this?” said a female, who entered the room 
as he uttered this reflection. ‘‘You here. Master Peveril, in spite of 
all the warnings you have had? You here, in the possession of 
folk’s house wdien tliey are abroad, and talking to yourself as 1 shall 
warrant!” 

“ Yes, Mistress Deborah.,” said Peveril, “1 am here once more, 
as you see, against every prohibition, and in defiance of all danger. 
^Yllere is Alice?” 

“ M'here you will never see her. Master Julian— you may satisfy 
yourself of that,” answered Mistress Deborah, for it was that re- 
spectable governante; and sinking down at the same time upon one 
of the large leathern chairs, she began to fan herself with her hand- 
kerchief, and complain of the heat in a most ladylike fashion. 

In fact, 31istress Dcbbitch, while her exterior intimated a consider- 
able change of condition for the better, and her countenance showed 
the less favorable effects of the twenty years which had passed over 
her head, was in mind and manners very much w^hat she had been 
when she battled the opinions of Madam Ellesmere at Martindale 
Castle. In a word, she was self-willed, obstinate, and coquettish as 
ever, otherwise no ill-disposed person. Her present appearance was 
that of a woman of the better rank. From the sobriety of the fash- 
ion of her dress, and the uniformity of its colors, it was plain she 
belonged to some sect which condemned superfluous gayet}" in attire; 
but no rules, not those of a nunnery or of a quaker’s society, can 
prevent a little coquetry in that particular, where a woman is desir- 
ous of being supposed to retain some claim to personal attention. 
All Mistress Deboiah’s garments were so arranged as might best set 
off a good-looking woman, whose countenance indicated ease and 
good cheer — who called herself five-and-thirty, and well entitled, 
if she had a mind, to call herself twelve oi fifteen years older. 

Julian was under the necssity of enduring all her tiresome and 
fantastic airs, and awaiting with patience till she had ” prinked her- 
self and pinned herself ” — flung her hoods back, and drawn them 
forward— snuffed at a little bottle of essences— closed her eyes like a 
dying fowl— turned them up like a duck in a thunder-storm; when 
at length, having exhausted her round of minaiideries, she conde- 
scended to open the conversation. 

‘‘ These walks will be the death of me,” she said, “ and all on 
your account, Master Julian Peveril; for if Dame Christian should 

* See Note 'R— Portrait of William Christian. 


124 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


learn that you have chosen to make your visits to her niece, I 
promise you Mistress iVlice would be soon obliged to find other quar- 
ters, and so should I.” 

“ Come now, Mistress Deborah, be good-humored,” said Julian; 
“ consider, was not all this intimacy of ours of your own making? 
Did you not make yourself known to me the very first time 1 strolled 
up this glen with my fishing-rod, and tell me that you were my 
former keeper, and that Alice had been my little playfellow ? And 
what could there be more natural, than that I should come back and 
see two such agreeable persons as often as 1 could?” 

“ Aes,” said Dame Deborah, ” but 1 did not bid you fall in love 
with us, though, or propose such a matter as marriage either to 
Alice or myself.” 

” To do you justice, you never did, Deborah,” answered the youth; 
” but what of that? Such things will come out before one is aware. 
1 am sure you must have heard such proposals fifty times when you 
least expected them.” 

“Fie, fie, fie. Master Julian Peveril,” said the governante; “I 
would have you to know that I have always so behaved myself, that 
the best of the land would have thought twice of it, and have very 
well considerd both what he was going to say, and how he was going 
to say it, before he came out with such proposals to me.” 

“ True, true, Mistress Deborah,” continued Julian; “ but all the 
world hath not your discretion. Then Alice Bridgenorth is a child 
— a mere child; and one always asks a baby to be one’s little wife,, 
you know. Come, I know you will forgive me. Thou wert ever 
the best-natured, kindest woman in the world ; and j^ou know you 
have said twenty times we were made for each other.” 

“ Oh, no. Master Julian Peveril; no, no, no!’ ejaculated Deborah.. 
“ 1 may indeed have said your estates were born to be united; and 
to be sure it is natural for me, that come of the old stock of the 
yeomanry of Peveril of the Peak’s estate, to wish that it was all 
within the ring fence again; which sure enough.it might be, were 
you to marry Alice Bridgenorth. But then there is the knight your 
father, and my lady, your mother; and there is her father, that 
is half crazy with his religion; and her aunt that wears eternal 
black grogram for that unlucky Colonel Christian; and there 
is the Countess of Derby, that would serve us all with the same 
sauce if we were thinking of anything that would displease her. 
And beside all that, you have broke your word with Mistress Alice, 
and everything is over between you; and I am of opinion it is quite 
right it should be all over. And' perhaps it may be. Master Julian, 
that I should have thought so a long time ago, before a child like 
Alice put it into my head; but 1 am so good-natured.” 

bio flatterer like a lover, who wishes to carry his point. 

“ You are the best-natured, kindest -creature in the world, Deb- 
orah. But you have never seen the ring I bought for you at Paris. 
Nay, 1 will put it on your finger myself; — what! youi foster-son,, 
whom you loved so well, and took such care of?” 

He easily succeeded in putting a pretty ring of gold, with a hum- 
orous affectation of gallantry, on the fat finger of Mistress Deborah 
Debbitch. Hers was a soul of a kind often to be met with, both 
among the lower and higher vulgar, who, without being on a broad 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


125 

scale, accessible to bribes or corruption, are nevertheless much at- 
tached to perquisites, and considerably biassed in their line of duty,, 
though perhaps insensibly, by the love of petty observances, petty 
presents, and trivial compliments. Mistress Debbitch turned the 
ring round, and round, and round, and at length said, in a whisper, 
“ Well, Master Julian Peveril, it signifies nothing denying any thing 
to such a young geentleman as you, for young gentlemen are always 
so obstinate! and so 1 may as well tell you, that Mistress Alice 
walked back from Kick-Truagh along with me, just now, and entered 
the house at the same time with myself. ” 

“ Why did you not tell me so before?” said Julian, starting up ^ 
“ where — where is she?” 

“ You had better ask why I tell you so now, Master Julian,” said 
Dame Deborah; ” for, 1 promise you, it is against her express com- 
mands; and 1 would not have told you, had you not looked so piti- 
ful; — but as for seeing you, that she will not— and she is in her own 
bedroom, with a good oak door shut and bolted upon her — that is 
one comfort. And so, as for any breach of trust on my part — I 
promise you the little saucy minx gives it no less name — it is quite 
impossible.” 

” Do not say so, Deborah— only go— only try — tell her to hear me 
— tell her I have a hundred excuses for disobeying her commands — 
tell her 1 have no doubt to get over all obstacles at Martindale 
Castle.” 

” Nay, 1 tell you it is all in vain,” replied the dame. ‘‘ When 1 
saw your cap and rod lying in the hall, 1 did but sa}’-, ‘ There he is 
again,’ and she ran up the stairs like a young deer; and I heard key 
turned, and bolt shot, before ever 1 could say a single word to 
her — I marvel you heard her not.” 

” It was because 1 am, as I ever was, an owl — a dreaming fool, 
who let all those golden minutes pass, which my luckless life holds 
out to me so rarely. Well — tell her 1 go-go forever — go where she 
will hear no more of me — where no one shall hear more of me!” 

‘‘ Oh, the Father!” said the dame, ” hear how he talks! What 
will become ot Sir Geoffrey, and your mother, and of me, and of the 
countess, if you were to go so far as you talk of? And what would 
become of poor Alice too? for 1 will be sworn she likes you better 
than she says, and 1 know she used to sit and look the way that you 
used to come up the stream, and now and then ask me if the morn- 
ing were good for fishing. And all the while you were on the con- 
tinent, as they call il , she scarcely smiled once, unless it was when 
she got two beautiful long letters about foreign parts.” 

“ Friendship, Dame Deborah — only friendship — cold and calm re- 
membrance of one who, by your kind permission, stole in on your 
solitude now and then, with news from the living world without. 
Once, indeed, I thought — but it is all over — farewell.” 

So saying, he covered his face with one hand, and extended the 
other, in the act of bidding adieu to Dame Debbitch, whose kind 
heart became unable to withstand the sight of his affliction. 

” Now, do not be In such haste,” she said; ” 1 will go up again, 
and telf her how it stands with you, and bring her down if it is in. 
woman’s power to do it.” 

And so saying, she left the apartment and ran upstairs. 


126 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Julian Peveril, meanwhile, paced the apartment in great agitation, 
waiting the success of Deborah’s intercession; and she remaiued 
long enough absent to give us time to explain, in a short retrospect, 
the circumstances which had led to his present situation. 


CHAPTER Xll. 

Ah me ! for aught that ever I could read, 

Could ever hear by tale or history, 

The course of ti’ue love never did run smooth ! 

Midsummer Night's Dream. 

The celebrated passage which we have prefixed to this chapter, 
has, like most observations of the same author, its foundation in real 
experience. The period at which love is formed for the first time, 
and felt most strongly, is seldom that at which there is much pros- 
pect of its being brought to a happy issue. The state ot artificial 
society opposes many complicated obstructions to early marriages; 
and the chance is very great, that such obstacles prove insurmount- 
able. In fine, there are few men who do not look back in secret to 
some period of their youth, at which a sincere and early affection 
was repulsed, or betrayed, or became abortive from opposing cir- 
cumstances. It is these little passages of secret history, which leave 
a tinge of romance in every bosom, scarce permitting us, even in the 
most Dusy or the most advanced period of life, to listen with total 
indifference to a tale of true love. 

Julian Peveril had so fixed his affections, as to insure the fullest 
share ot that opposition wdiich early attachments are so apt to en- 
counter. Yet nothing so natural as that he should have done so. In 
early youth, Dame Debbitch had accidental!}" met with the son of 
her first patroness, and who had himself been her earliest charge, 
fishing in the little brook already noticed, which watered the valley 
in which she resided with Alice^Bridgenorth. The dame’s curiosity 
easily discovered who lie was ; and besides the interest w^hich persons 
in her condition usually take in the young people who have been un- 
der their charge, she was delighted w"ith the opportunity to talk 
about former times — about Martindale Castle, and friends there — 
about Sir Geoffrey and his good lady — and, now, and then, about 
Lance Outram, the park-keeper. 

The mere pleasure of gratifying her inquiries w"ould scarce have 
had power enough to induce Julian to repeat his visits to the lonely 
glen; but Deborah had a companion — a lovely girl — bred in solitude, 
and in the quiet and unpretending tastes which solitude encourages 
— spirited, also, and inquisitive, and listening, with laughing cheek, 
and an eager eye, to every tale wLich the young angler brought 
from the towm and castle. 

The visits of Julian to the Black Fort were only occasional— so 
far Dame Deborah showed common sense — which was, perhaps, in- 
spired by the apprehension of losing her place, in case of discovery. 
She had, indeed, great confidence in the strong and rooted b^elief— 
amounting almost to superstition— which Major Bridgenorth enter- 
tained, that his daughter’s continued health could only be insured 
by her continuing umler the charge of one who had acquired Lady 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


12T 

PeveriVs supposed skill in treating those subject to such ailments. 
This belief Dame Deborah had improved to the utmost of her simple 
cunning— always speaking in something of an oracular tone, upou 
the subject of her charge’s health, and hinting at certain mysterious 
rules necessary to maintain it in the present favorable state. She 
had availed herself of this artifice, to procure for herself and Alice a 
separate establishment at the Black Fort; for it was originally Major 
Bridgenorth’s resolution, that his daughter and her governante should 
remain under the same loof with the sister-in-law of his deceased 
wife, the widow of the unfortunate Colonel Christian. But this 
lady was broken down with premature age, brought on by sorrow;, 
and, in a short visit which Major Bridgenorth made to the island, 
he was easily prevailed on to consider her house at Kirk-Truagh as 
a very cheerless residence for his daughter. Dame Deborah, who 
longed for domestic independence, was careful to increase this im- 
pression by alarming her patron’s fears on account of Alice’s health. 
The mansion of Kirk-Truagii stood, she said, much exposed to the 
Scottish winds, which could not but be cold, as they came from a 
country where, as she was assured, there was ice and snow at mid- 
summer. In short, she prevailed, and was put into full possession of 
the Black Fort, a house which, as well as liirk-Truagh, belonged 
formerly to Christian, and now to his widow. 

Still, however, it was enjoined on the governante and her charge 
to visit Kirk-Truagh from time to time, and to consider themselve& 
as under the managernenfand guardianship of Mistress Christian — a 
state of subjection, the sense of which Deborah endeavored to lessen, 
by assuming as much freedom of conduct as she possibly dared, 
under the influence, doubtless, of the same feelings of independence 
which induced her, at Martindale Hall, to spurn the advice of Mis- 
tress Ellesmeie. 

It was this generous disposition to defy control which induced her 
to procure for Alice, secretly, some means of education, which the 
stern genius of Puritanism would have proscribed. She ventured to 
have her charge taught music— nay, even dancing; and the picture 
of the stern Colonel Christian trembled on the wainscot where it was 
suspended, while the sylph-like form of Alice, and the substantial 
person of Dame Deborah, executed h’rench chaussees and horees, to 
the sound of a small kit, which screamed under the bow of Mon- 
sieur de Pigal, half muggier, half dancing-master. This abomina- 
tion reached the ears of the colonel’s widow, and by her was com 
municated to Bridgenorth, whose sudden appearance in the island 
showed the importance he attached to the communication. Had she 
been faithless to her own cause, that had been the latest hour of 
Mrs. Deborah’s administration. But she retreated into her strong- 
hold. 

“Dancing’’ she said, “was exercised, regulated and timed by 
music; and it stood to reason that it must be the best of all exercise's 
for a delicate person, especially as it could be taken within doors, and 
in all states of the weather.’’ 

Bridgenorth listened, with a clouded and thoughtful brow, when, 
in exemplification of her doctrine. Mistress Deliorah, who was no 
contemptible perforer on the viol, began to jangle bellenger’s Round, 
and desired Alice to dance an old English measure to the tune. As 


12S 


PEVEfelL OF THE PEAK. 


the halt'^bashful, half -smiling girl, about fourteen— for such was 
her age— moved gracefully to the music, the father’s eye unavoid- 
ably followed the light spring of her step, and marked with Joy the 
rising color in her cheek. ^Vhen the dance was over, he folded her 
in his arms, smoothed her somewhat disordered locks with a father’s 
affectionate hand, smiled, kissed her brow, and took his leave, with- 
out one single word further interdicting the exercise of dancing. He 
did not himself communicate the result of his visit to the Black Fort 
to Mrs. Christian, but she was not long of learning it, by the tri- 
umph of Dame Deborah on her next visit. 

“ It is well,” said the stern old lady; “ my brother Bridgenoith 
hath permitted you to make a Herodias of Alice, and teach her danc- 
ing. You have only now to find her a partner for life. 1 shall 
neither meddle nor make more in their affairs.” 

In fact, the triumph of Dame Deborah, or rather of Dame Kature, 
on this occasion, had more important eftects than the former had 
ventured to anticipate; for Mistress Christian, though she received 
with all formality the formal visits of the governante and her charge, 
seemed thenceforth so pettish with the issue of her remonstrance, 
upon the enormity of her niece dancing to a little fiddle, that she ap- 
“peared to give up interference in her aftairs, and left Dame Debbitch 
and Alice to manage both education and housekeeping — in which 
she bad hitherto greatly concerned herself — much after their own 
pleasure. 

It was in this independent state that they lived, when Julian first 
visited their habitation; and he was the rather encouraged to do so 
b}^ Dame Deborah, that she believed him to be one of the last per- 
sons in the world with whom Mistress Christian would have desired 
her niece to be acquainted — the happy spirit of contradiction super- 
seding, with Dame Deborah on this, as on other occasions, all con- 
sideration of the fitness of things. She did not act altogether with- 
out precaution neither. She was aware she had to guard not only 
against any reviving interest or curiosity on the part of Mistress 
Christian, but against the sudden arrival of Major Bridgenoith, who 
never failed once in the year to make his appearance at the Black - 
Fort when least expected, and to remain there for a tew days. Dame 
Debbitch, therefore, exacted of Julian that his visits should be few 
and far between; that he should condescend to pass for a relation of 
her own, in the eyes of two ignorant Manx girls and a lad, w’ho 
formed her establishment; and that he should always appear in his 
angler s dress made of the simple Loughtan, or buff-colored wool of 
the island, which is not subjected to dyeing. By these cautions, she 
thought his intimacy at the Black Fort would be entirely unnoticed, 
■or considered as immaterial, while, in the meantime, It furnished 
much amusement to her charge and herself. 

This was accordingly the case during the earlier part of their in- 
tercourse, while Julian was a lad, and Alice a girl of two or three 
years younger. But as the lad shot up to youth, and the girl tc 
womanhood, even Dame Deborah Debbitch’s judgment saw danger 
in their continued intimacy. She took an opportuoity to communi- 
cate to Julian who Miss Bridgenorth actually was, and the peculiar 
circumstances which placed discord between their fathers. He 
heard the story of their quarrel with interest and surprise, for he 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 129 

had only resided occasionally at Martindale Castle, and the subject 
of Bridgenorth’s quarrel with his father had never been mentioned 
in his presence. His imagination caught fire at the sparks afforded 
by this singular story; and, far from complying with the prudent 
remonstrance of Dame Deborah, and gradually estranging himself 
from the Black Fort and its fair inmate, he frankly declared, he con- 
sidered his intimacy there, so casually commenced, as intimating 
the will of Heaven that Alice and he were designed for each other, 
in spite of every obstacle which passion or prejudice could raise up 
betwixt them. They had been companions in infancy; and a little 
exertion of memory enablea him to recall his childish grief for the 
unexpected end sudden disappearance of his little companion, whom 
he was destined again to meet in the early bloom of opening beauty, 
in a country which was foreign to them both. 

Dame Deborah was confounded at the consequences of her com- 
munication, which had thus blown into a fiame the passion which 
she hoped it would have either prevented or extinguished. She had 
nut the sort of head which resists the masculine and energetic re- 
monstrances of passionate attachment, Whether addressed to her on 
her own account, or on behalf of another. She lamented, and won- 
dered, and ended her feeble opposition, by weeping, and sympathiz- 
ing, and consenting tO allow the continuance of Julian’s visits, pro- 
vided he should only address himself to Alice as a friend; to gain 
the world, she would consent to nothing more. She was not, how- 
ever, so simple, but that she also had her forebodings of the designs 
of Providence on this youthful couple ; for certainly they could not 
be more formed to be united than the good estates of Martindale and 
Moultrassie. 

Then came a long sequence of reflections. Martindale Castle 
wanted but some repairs to be almost equal to Chatsworth. The 
Hall might be allowed to go to ruin; or, what would be better, 
when Sir Geoffrey’s time came (for the good knight had seen 
service, and must be breaking now), the Hall would be a good 
dowry-house, to which my lady and Ellesmere might retreat; while 
(empress of the still-room, and queen of the pantryjAlistress Deborah 
Debbitch should reign housekeeper at the castle, and extend, per- 
haps, the crown-matrimonial to Lance Outram, provided he was not 
become too old, too fat, or too fond of ale. 

Such were the soothing visions under the influence of which the 
dame connived at an attachment, which lulled also to pleasing 
dreams, though of a character so different, her charge and her visit- 
ant. 

The visits of the young angler became more and mbre frequent; 
and the embarrassed Deborah, though foreseeing all the dangers of 
discovery, and the additional risk of an explanation betwixt Alice 
and Julian, which must necessarily render their relative situation so 
much more delicate, felt completely overborne by the enthusiasm of 
the young lover, and was compelled to let matters take their course. 

The departure of Julian for the continent interrupted the course 
of his intimacy at the Black Fort, and while it relieved the elder of 
its intimates from much internal apprehension, spread an air of 
languor and dejection over the countenance of the youngei, which, at 

6 ♦ 


130 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Bridgenorth’s next visit to the Isle of Man, renewed all his terrors 
for his daughter’s constitutional malady. 

Deborah promised faithfully she should look better the next morn- 
ing, and she kept her word. She had retained in her possession for 
some time a letter which Julian had, by some private conveyance, 
sent to her charge, for his youthful friend. Deborah had dreaded 
the consequences of delivering it as a billet-doux, but, as in the case 
of the dance, she thought there could be no harm in administering it 
as a remedy. 

It nad complete effect ; and next day the cheeKs of the maiden had 
a tinge of the rose, which so much delighted her father, that, as he 
mounted his horse, he flung his purse into Deborah’s hand, with the 
desire she should spare nothing that could make herself and his 
daughter happy, and the assurance that she had his full confidence. 

This expression of liberality and confidence from a man of Major 
Bridgenorth’s reserved and cautious disposition gave full plumage 
to Mistress Deborah’s hopes; and emboldened her not only to de- 
liver another letter of Julian’s to the young lady, but to encourage 
more boldl}^ and freely than formerly the intercourse of the lovers 
when Peveril returned from abroad. 

At length, in spite of all Julian’s precaution, the young earl be- 
came suspicious of his frequent solitary fishing parties; and he him- 
self, now better acquainted with the world than formerly, became 
aware that his repeated visits and solitary walks with a person so 
young and beautiful as Alice, might not only betray prematurely 
the secret of his attachment, but be of essential prejudice to her who 
was its object. 

Under the influence of this conviction, he abstained, for an un- 
usual period, from visiting the Black Fort. But when he next in- 
dulged liimself with spending an hour in the place where he would 
gladly have abode for ever, the altered manner of Alice — the tone 
in which she seemed to upbraid his neglect, penetrated his heart, 
and deprived him of that power of self-command, which he had 
hitherto exercised in their interviews. It required but a lew ener- 
getic words to explain to Alice at once his feelings, and to make 
her sensible of the real nature of her own. She w^ept plentifully, 
but her tears were not all of bitterness. She sat passively still, and 
without reply, while he explained to her, with many an interjection, 
the circumstances which had placed discord between their families; 
for hitherto, all that she had known was, that Master Peveril, be- 
longing to the household of the great Countess or Lady of Man, 
must observe some precautions in visiting a relative of the unhappy 
Colonel Christian. But, when Julian concluded his tale with the 
warmest protestations of eternal love, “ My poor father,” she bursts 
forth, “ and was this to be the end of all thy precautions? This, 
that the son of him that disgraced and banished thee, should hold 
such language to your daughter?” 

” You err, Alice, you err,” cried Julian, eagerly. “ That 1 hold 
this language — that the son of Peveril addresses thus the daughter 
of your father — that he thus kneels to you for forgiveness of injuries 
which passed when we were both infauts, shows the will of Heaven, 
J;hat in our affection should be quenched the discord of our parents. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 131 

What else could lead those who parted infants on the hills of Der- 
byshire, to meet thus in the valleys of Man?” 

Alice, however new such a scene, and, above all, her own emotions, 
might be, was highly endowed with that exquisite delicacy which is 
imprinted in the female heart, to give warning of the slightest ap- 
proach to impropriety in a situation like hers. 

“ Rise, rise, Master Peveril,” she said; “ do not do yourself and 
me this injustice — we have done both wrong — very wrong; but my 
fault was done in ignorance. O God! my poor father, who needs 
comfort so much— is it for me to add to his misfortunes? Rise!” 
she added, more firmly; ‘‘if you retain this unbecoming posture 
any longer, 1 will, leave the room, and you shall never see me 
more.” 

The commanding tone of Alice overawed the impetuosity of her 
lover, who took in silence a seat removed to some distance from 
hers, and was again about to speak. “Julian,” said she, in a 
milder tone, “you have spoken enough, and more tlian enough. 
Would you had left me in the pleasing dream in which I could have 
listened to you for ever! but the hour of wakening is arrived.” 
Peveril wailkl the prosecution of her speech as a criminal while he 
waits .his doom; foi he was sufficiently sensible that an answer, de- 
livered not certainly without emotion, but with firmness and resolu- 
tion was not to be interrupted. “We have done wrong,” she re- 
peated, “ very wrong; and if we now separate for ever, the pain we 
may feel will be but a just penalty for our error. We should never 
have met: meeting, we should part as soon as possible. Our further 
intercourse can but double our pain at parting. Farewell, Julian; 
and forgot we ever have seen each other!” 

“Forget!” said Julian; “never, never. To you, it is easy to 
speak the word — to think the thought. To me, an approach to either 
can only be by utter destruction. Why should you doubt that the 
feud of pur fathers, like so many of which we have heard, might 
be appeased by our friendship? You are my only friend. 1 am the 
only one whom Heaven has assigned to 5 mu. Why should wo 
separate for the fault of others, which befell when we were but chil- 
dren?” 

“You speak in vain, Julian,” said Alice; “ 1 pity you — perhaps 
1 pity myself— indeed, 1 should pity myself, perhaps, the most of 
the two; for you will go forth to new scenes and new faces, and will 
soon forget me; but I, remaining in this solitude, how shall 1 for- 
get? — that, however, is not now the question — 1 can bear my lot, 
and it commands us to part.” 

“ Hear me yet a moiiient,” said Peveril; “ this evil is not, cannot 
be remediless. 1 will go to my father — 1 will use the intercession 
of my mother, to whom he can refuse nothing — I will gam their 
consent— they have no other child— and they must consent, or lose 
him for ever. Say, Alice, if 1 come to you with my parents’ con- 
sent to my suit, will you again say, with that tone so touching and 
so sad, yet so incredibly determined— Julian, we must part?” Alice 
was silent. “ Cruel girl, will you not even deign to answer me?” 
said her lover. 

“We answer not those who speak in their dreams, said Alice. 
■“You ask me what 1 would do \yere impossibilities performed. 


132 PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 

What right have you to make such suppositions, and ask such a 
question?” 

” Hope, Alice, Hope,” answered Julian, ” the last support of the 
wretched, which even you surely would not be cruel enough to de- 
prive me of. In every difficulty, in every doubt, in every danger, 
Hope will fight even if he cannot conquer.. Tell me once more, if 
1 come to 3 ’^ou in the name of my father— in the name of that moth- 
er, to whom you partly owe j’our life, what would you answer to 
me?” 

” 1 would refer you to» my own father.” said Alice, blushing, 
and casting her eyes down; but instantly raising them again, she 
repeated, in a firmer and a sadder tone, “ Yes, Julian, 1 would refer 
you to- my father; and you would find that your pilot, Hope, had 
deeeived you; and that you had but escaped the quicksands to fall 
upon the rocks.” 

‘‘ 1 would that could be tried!” said Julian. ” Methinks 1 could 
persuade your father that in ordinary eyes our alliance is not un- 
desirable. My family have fortune, rank, long descent — all that fa- 
thers look for when they bestow a daughter’s hand.” 

” All this would avail j^ou nothing,” said Alice. ” The spirit of 
my lather is bent upon the things of another world; and if he list- 
ened to hear you out, it would bo but to tell you that he spurned 
your offers.” 

” You know not — you know not, Alice,” said Julian. ” Fire can 
soften iron — thy father’s heart cannot be so hard, or his prejudices 
so strong, but 1 shall find some means to melt him. Forbid me 
not — oh, forbid me not at least the experiment!” 

“ 1 can but advise,” said Alice; ” 1 can forbid you nothing, for, 
to forbid implies power to command obedience. But if you will 
be wise, and listen to me — here, and on this spot, we part for 
ever!” 

“jSot so, by Heaven!” said Julian, whose bold and sanguine 
temper scarce saw difficulty in attaining aught which he desired. 
“We now part, indeed, but it is that 1 may return armed with my 
parents’ consent. They desire that 1 should marry— in their last 
letters they pressed it more openly — they shall have their desire; and 
such a bride as 1 will present to them has not graced their house 
sinee the Conqueror gave it origin. Farewell, Alice! Farewell, for 
a brief space!” 

She replied, ” Farewell, Julian! Farewell for ever!” 

Julian, within a week of this interview, was at Martindale Castle, 
with the view of communicating his purpose. But the task which 
seems easy at a-distance, proves as difficult, upon a nearer approach, 
as the fording of a river, which from afar appeared only a biook. 
There lacked not opportunities of entering upon the subject; for in 
the first ride which he took with his father, the knight resumed the 
subject of his son’s marriage, and liberally left the lady to his choice^ 
but under the strict proviso, that she was of a loyal and an honora- 
ble family; — if she had fortune, it was good and well; or rather, 
it was better than well; but it she was poor, why, “there is still 
some picking,” said Sir Geoffrey, “ on the bones of the old estate; 
and Dame Margaret and I will be content with the less, that you 
young folks may have your share of it. 1 am turned frugal already. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


133 

Julian. You see what a north-country shambling bit of a Gal- 
loway nag I ride upon— a different beast, 1 wot, from my own old 
Black Hastings, who had but one fault, and that was his wish to 
turn down Moultrassie avenue." 

“ Was that so great a fault?" said Julian, affecting indifference, 
while his heart was trembling, as it seemed to him, almost in his 
very throat. 

“ It used to remind me of that base, dishonorable Presbyterian 
fellow, Bridgenorth," said Sir Geoffrey; “ and 1 would as lief think 
of a toad:— they say he has turned Independent, to accomplish the 
full degree of rascality. I tell you. Gill, 1 turned off the cow-boy, 
for gathering nuts in his woods — I would hang a dog that would so 
much as kill a hare there. But what is the matter with you? You 
look pale.” 

Julian made some indifferent answer, but too well understood, 
from the language and tone which his father used, that his preju- 
dices against Alice’s father were both deep and envenomed, as those 
of country gentlemen often become, w'ho, having little to do or think 
of, are but too apt to spend their time in nursing and cherishing 
petty causes of wrath against their next neighbors. 

In the course of the same day, he mentioned the Bridgenorths to 
his mother, as if in a casual manner. But the Lady Peveril in- 
stantly conjured him never to mention the name, especially in his 
father’s presence. 

“Was that Major Bridgenorth, of whom 1 have heard the name 
mentioned,” said Julian, “ so very bad a neighbor?” 

“ I do not say so,” said Lady Peveril; “ nay, we were more than 
once obliged to him, in the former unhappy times; but your father 
and he took some passages so ill at each other’s hands, that the least 
allusion to him disturbs Sir Geoffrey’s temper, in a manner quite 
unusual, and which, now that his health is somewhat impaired, is 
sometimes alarming to me. For Heaven’s sake, then, my dear Julian, 
avoid upon all occasions the slightest allusion to Moultrassie, or any 
of its inhabitants.” 

This warning was so seriously given, that Julian himself saw that 
mention! ag his secret purpose would be the sure way to render it 
abortive, and therefore he returned disconsolate to the isle. 

Peveril had the boldness, however, to make the best he could of 
what had happened, by requesting an interview with Alice, in order 
to inform her what had passed betwixt his parents and him on her 
account. It was wdth great difficulty that this boon was obtained; 
and Alice Bridgenorth showed no slight degree of displeasure, when 
she discovered, after much circumlocution, and many efforts to give 
an air of importance to what he had to communicate, that all 
amounted but to this, that Lady Peveril continued to retain a favora- 
ble opinion of her father. Major Bridgenorth, which Julian would 
fain have represented as an omen of their future more perfect recon- 
ciliation. 

“ 1 did not think you would thus have trifled with me. Master 
Peveril,” said Alice, assuming an air of dignity; “ but 1 will take 
care to avoid such intrusion in future— 1 request you. will not again 
visit the Black Fort; and 1 entreat of you, good Mistress Debbitch, 
that you will no longer either encourage or permit this gentleman’s 


134 


PEVEHIL OF THE PEAK. 


visits, as the result of such persecution will be to compel me to ap- 
peal to my aunt and father foi another place of residence, and per- 
haps also for another and more prudent companion.” 

This last hint struck Mistress Deborah with so much terror, that 
she joined her ward in requiring and demanding Julian’s instant 
absence, and he was obliged to comply with their request. But the 
courage ot a youthful lover is not easily subdued; and Julian, after 
having gone through the usual round ot trying to forget his ungrate- 
ful mistress, and again entertaining his passion with augmented 
violence, ended by the visit to the Black Fort, the beginning of 
which we narrated in the last chapter. 

We then left him anxious for, yet alm,ost tearful of, an interview 
with Alice, which he had prevailed upon Deborah to solicit; and 
such was the tumult of his mind, that, while he traversed the parlor, 
it seemed to him that the dark melancholy eyes of the slaughtered 
Christian’s portrait followed him wherever he went, with the fixed, 
chill, and ominous glance, which announced to the enemy of his race 
mishap and misfortune. 

Tne door of the apartment opened at length, and these visions 
were dissipated. 


CHAPTER Xlll. 

Parents have flinty hearts 1 No tears can move them. 

Otway. 

When Alice Bridgenorth at length entered the parlor where her 
anxious lover had so lon^ expected her, it was with a slow step, 
and a composed manner. Iler dress was arranged with an accurate 
attention to form, which at once enhanced the appearance of its 
puritanic simplicity, and struck Julian as a bad omen; for although 
the time bestowed upon the toilet may, in many cases, intimate the 
wish to appear advantageously at such an interview, yet a ceremoni- 
ous arrangement of attire is very much allied with formality, and a 
preconceived determination to treat a lover with cold politeness. 

The sad-colored gown— the pinched and plaited cap, which care- 
fully obscured the profusion of long dark-brown hair — the small 
ruff, and the long sleeves, would have appeared to great (disadvan- 
tage on a shape less graceful than Alice Bridgenorth’s ; bfit an ex- 
quisite form, though not, as yet, sufficiently rounded in the outlines 
to produce the perfection of female beauty, was able to sustain and 
give grace even to this unbecoming dress. Her countenance, fair 
and delicate, with eyes of hazel, and a brow of alabaster, had, not- 
withstanding, less regular beauty than her form, and might have 
been justly subjected to criticism. There was, however, a life and 
spirit in her gayety, and a depth of sentiment in her gravity, which 
made Alice, in conversation with the very few persons with whom 
she associated, so fascinating in her manners and expression, whether 
of language or countenance— so touching, also, in her simplicity an(i 
purity of thought, that brighter beauties might have been over- 
looked in her company. It was no wonder, therefore, that an ardent 
character like Julian, influenced by these charms, as well as by the 
secrecy and mystery attending his intercourse with Alice, should 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 135 

prefer the recluse of the Black Fort to all others with whom he had 
become acquainted in general society. 

His heart beat high as she came into the apartment, and it was 
almost without an attempt to speak that his profound obeisance 
acknowledged her entrance, 

‘‘ This is a mockery, Master Peveril,” said Alice, with ap eflort to 
speak firmly, which yet was disconcerted by a slightly tremulous in- 
fiection of voice — “ a mockery, and a cruel one. You come to this 
lone place, inhabited only by two women, too simple to command 
your absence — too weak to enforce it — you come, in spite of my 
earnest request — to the neglect of your own time— to the prejudice, 
1 may fear, of my character — you abuse the influence you possess 
over the simple person to whom 1 am intrusted— All this you do, 
and think to make it up by low reverences and constrained courtesy! 
Is this honorable, or is it fair? Is it,” she added, after a moment’s 
hesitation — ” is it kind?” 

The tremulous accent fell especially on the last word she uttered, 
and it was spoken in a low tone of gentle reproach, which went to 
Julian’s heart. 

“If,” said he, “ there was 'a mode by which, at the peril of my 
life, Alice, 1 could show my regard — my respect — my devoted ten- 
derness — the danger w’ould be dearer to me than ever was pleasure.” 

“You have said such things often,” said Alice, “and they are 
such as 1 ought not to hear, and do not desire to hear. 1 have no 
tasks to impose on you — no enemies to be destroyed — no need or de- 
sire of protection — no wish. Heaven knows, to expose you to dan- 
ger — It is your visits here alone to which danger attaches. You 
have but to rule your own willful temper — to turn your thoughts 
and your cares olsewhere, and 1 can have nothing to ask — nothing 
to wish for. Use your own reason —consider the injury you do your- 
self — the injustice you do us — and let me, once more, in fair terms, 
entreat you to absent yourself from this place — till — till — ” 

She paused, and Julian eagerly interrupted her. “ Till when, 
Alice? — till when? — impose on me any length of absence which your 
severity can inflict, short of a final separation — Say, Begone for years, 
but return when these years are over; and, slow and wearily as they 
must pass away, still the thought, that they must at length have their 
period, will enable me to live through them. Let me, then, conjure 
thee, Alice, to name a date — to fix a term — to say till wlien!^' 

“ Till you can bear to think of me only as a friend and sister.” 

“That is a sentence of eternal banishment indeed!” said Julian; 
“ it is seeming, no doubt, to fix a term of exile, but attaching to it 
an impossible condition.” 

“ And why impossible, Julian?” said Alice, in a tone of persua- 
sion; “ were we not happier ere you threw the mask from your own 
countenance, and tore the veil from my foolish eyes? Did we not 
meet with joy, spend our time happily, and part cheerily, because we 
transgressed no duty, and incurred no self-reproach? Bring back 
that state of happy ignorance, and you shall have no reason to call 
me unkind. But while you form schemes which 1 know, to be vision- 
ary, and use language of such violence and passion, you shall excuse 
me if I now, and once for all, declare, that since Deborah shows' 
herself unfit for the trust reposed in her, and must needs expose me 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


136 

to persecutions of this nature, 1 will write to my father, that he may 
fix me another place of residence; and in the meanwhile 1 will take 
shelter with my aunt at Kirk-Truagh. ” 

“ Hear me, unpitying girl,” saidPeveril, ” hear me, and you shall 
see how devoted 1 am to obedience, in all that 1 can do to oblige 
you! You say you were happy when we spoke not on such topics 
—well— at’ all expense of my own suppressed feelings, that happy 
period shall return, 1 will meet you — walk with you — read with 
you — but only as a brother would with his sister, or a friend with 
his friend; the thoughts 1 may nourish, be they of hope or of de- 
spair, my tongue shall not give birth to, and therefore 1 cannot 
oft end; Deborah shall be ever by your side, and her presence shall 
prevent my even hinting at what might displease you — only do not 
make a crime to me of those thoughts which are the dearest part of 
my existence; for believe me it were better and kinder to rob me of 
existence itself.” 

” This is the mere ecstasy of passion, Julian,” answered Alice 
Bridgenorth; ” that which is unpleasant, our selfish and stubborn 
will represents as impossible. 1 have no confidence in the plan you 
propose — no confidence in your resolution, and less than none in the 
protection of Deborah. Till you can renounce, honestly and ex- * 
plicitly, the wishes you have lately expressed, we must be strangers; 
— and could you renounce them even at this moment, it were better 
that we should part for a long time; and, tor Heaven’s sake, let it 
be as soon as possible— perhaps it is even now too late to prevent 
some unpleasant accident — 1 thought 1 heard a noise. ’ ’ 

“It was Deborah,” answered Julian. ” Be not afraid., Alice; we 
are secure against surprise. ” 

” 1 know not,” said Alice, “ what you mean by such security — 1 
have nothing to hide. 1 sought not this interview ; on the contrary, 
averted it as long as 1 could— and am now most desirous to break 
it off.” 

” And wherefore, Alice, since you say it must be our last? Why 
should you shake the sand which is passing so fast? the very ex- 
ecutioner hurries not the prayers of the wretches upon the scaffold. 
And see you not— 1 will argue as coldly as you can (^eshe — see you 
not that you are breaking your own word, and recalling the hope 
which yourself held out to me?” 

” \Yhat hope have 1 suggested? What word have 1 given, 
Julian?” answered Alice. ” You yourself build wild hopes in the 
air and accuse me of destroying of what had never any earthly 
foundation. Spare yourself, Julian — spare me — and in mercy to us 
both depart, and return not again till you can be more reasonable.” 

“Reasonable!” replied Julian; “it is you, Alice, who will de- 
prive me altogether of reason. Did you not say, that it our parents 
could be brought to consent to our union, you would no longer op- 
pose my suit?” 

“No— no— no,” said Alice, eagerly, and blushing deeply— “ I 
did not say so, Julian — it was your own wild imagination which 
put construction on my silence and my confusion.” 

“You do not say so, then,” answered Julian; “ and if all other 
obstacles were removed, 1 should find one in the cold flinty bosom 
of her who repays tire most devoted and sincere affection with con- 


PEVElllL OF THE PEAK. 137 

tempt and dislike? Is that,” he added, in a deep tone of feeling— 

is that what Alice Bridgenorth sajs to Julian Peveril?” 

‘‘Indeed — indeed, Julian,” said the almost weeping girl, ”1 do 
not say so— 1 say nothing, and 1 ought not to say anything concern* 
ing what 1 might do, in a state of things which can never take place. 
Indeed, Julian, you ought not thus to press me. Unprotected as 1 
am — wishing you well— very well — why should you urge me to say 
or do what would lessen me in my own eyes? to own aftection for 
one from whom fate has separated me for ever? It is ungenerous — 
it is cruel — it is seeking a momentary and selfish gratification to your- 
self, at the expense of every feeling which 1 ought to entertain.” 

‘‘You have said enough, Alice,” said Julian, with sparkling eyes; 
‘‘ you have said enough in deprecating my urgency, and l will press 
you no further. But you overrate the impediments which lie be- 
twixt us— thy must and shall give way.” 

‘‘ So you said before,” answered Alice, “ and with what proba- 
bility, your own account may show. You dared not to mention the 
subject to your own father— how should you venture to mention it 
to mine?” 

“ That I will soon enable you to decide upon. Major Bridge- 
north, by my mother’s account, is a worthy and an estimable man. 
1 will remind him, that to my mother’s care he owes the dearest 
treasure and comfort of his life; and Iwill ask him if it is a just ret- 
ribution to make that mother childless. Let me but know where 
to find him, Alice, and you shall soon hear if 1 have feared to plead 
my cause with him.” 

‘‘ Alas!” answered Alice, ‘‘ you well know my uncertainty as to 
my dear father’s residence. How often has it been my earnest re- 
quest to him that he w'ould let me share his solitary abode, or his 
obscure wanderings. But the short and infrequent visits which he 
makes to this house are all that he permits me of his society. Some- 
thing 1 might surely do, however little, to alleviate the melancholy 
by which he is oppressed.” 

” Something we might both do,” said Peveril. ” How willingly 
would I aid you in so pleasing a task! All old griefs should be for- 
gotten — all old friendships revived. My father’s prejudices are those 
of an Englishman — strong, indeed, but not insurmountable by 
reason. Tell me, then, where Major Bridgenorth is, and leave the 
rest to me; or let me but know by what address your letters reach 
him, and 1 will forthwith essay to discover his dwelling.” 

‘‘ Do not attempt it, 1 charge you,” said Alice. ‘‘ He is already a 
man of sorrows; and what would he think were 1 capable of enter- 
taining a suit so likely to add to them? Besides,! could not tell 
you, if L would, where he is now to be found. My letters reach him 
from time to time, by means of my aunt Christian; but of his ad- 
dress I am entirely ignorant.” 

” Then, by Heaven,” answered Julian, “ 1 will watch his arrival 
in this island, and in this house; and ere he has locked thee in his 
arms, he shall answer to me on the subject of my suit.” 

‘‘ Then demand that answer now,” said a voice from without the 
door, which was at the same time slowly opened—” Demand that 
answer now, for here stands Ralph Bridgenorth.” 

As he spoke, he entered the apartment with his usual slow and 


PEVEIUL OE THE PEAK. 


138 

sedate step — raised his flapped and- steeple-crowned hat from his 
brows, and, standing in the midst of the room, eyed alternately his 
daughter and Julian Peveril with a fixed and penetrating glance. 

“ Father!” said Alice, utterly astonished, and terrified, besides, 
by his sudden appearance at such a conjuncture— “ Father, 1 am 
not to blame.” 

“Of that anon, Alice,” said Bridgenorth; “meantime retire to 
our apartment— 1 have that to say to this youth which will not en- 
dure your presence.” 

“ Indeed — indeed, father,” said Alice, alarmed at what she sup- 
posed these words indicated, “ Julian is as little to be blamed as 1! 
It was chance, it was fortune, which caused our meeting together.” 
Then suddenly rushing forward, she threw her arms around her 
rather, saying, “ Oh, do him no injury — he meant no wrong 1 
Father, you were wont to be a man of reason and of religious peace. ” 

“ And wherefore should 1 not be so now, Alice?” said Bridge- 
north, raising his daughter from the ground, on which she had al- 
most sunk in the earnestness of her supplication. “ Dost thou know 
aught, maiden, which should inflame my anger against this young 
man, more than reason or religion may bridle? Go — go to thy 
chamber. Compose thine own passions — learn to rule these — and 
leave it to me to deal with this stubborn young man.” 

Alice arose, and wrth her eyes fixed on the ground, retired slowly 
from the apartment. Julian followed her steps with his eyes till 
the last wave of her garment was visible at the closing door ; then 
turned his looks to Major Bridgenorth, and then sunk them on the 
ground. The major continued to regard him in profound silence; 
his looks were melancholy and even austere; but there was nothing 
which indicated either agitation or keen resentment. He motioned 
to Julicin to take a seat, and assumed one himself. After which, he 
opened the conversation in the following manner: — 

“ \ou seemed but now, young gentleman, anxious to learn where 
1 was to be found. Such 1 at least conjectured, from the few ex- 
pressions which 1 chanced to overhear; for 1 made bold, though it 
may be contrary to the code of modern courtesy to listen a moment 
or two, in order to gather upon what subject so young a man as you 
entertained so young a woman as Alice in a private interview.” 

“ I trust sir, ” said Julian, rallying his spirits in what he felt to be a 
case of extremity, “ you have heard nothing on my part which has 
given offense to a gentleman, whom, though unknown, 1 am bound 
to respect so highly.” 

“ O-the contrary,” said Bridgenorth, with the same formal grav- 
ity, ‘lam pleased to find that your business is, or appears to be, 
with me, rather than with my daughter. I only think you had done 
better to have intrusted it to me in the first instance, as my sole 
concern.” 

The utmost sharpness of attention which Julian applied, could 
not discover if Bridgenorth spoke seriously or ironically to the 
above purpose. ^ He was, however, quick-witted beyond his experi- 
ence, and was internally determined to endeavor to discover some- 
thing of the character and the temper of him with whom he spoke. 
For that purpose, regulating his reply in the same tone with Bridge- 
north’s observation, he said, that not having the advantage to know 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 139 

his place of residence he had applied for information to his 
dauj!;hter. 

“ Who is now known to you for the first time?’' said Bridge- 
north. “ Am 1 so to understand you?” 

” By no means,” answered Julian, looking down; ” 1 have been 
known to your daughter for many years; and what 1 wished to say, 
respects both her happiness and my own.” 

” I must understand you,” said Bridgenorth, “ even as carnal 
men understand each other on tne matters of this world. You are 
attached to my daughter by the cords of love; 1 have long known 
this.” 

“You, Master Bridgenorth!” exclaimed Peveril— ” Tou have 
long known it?” 

” Yes, young man. Think you, that as the father of an only 
child, 1 could have suffered Alice Bridgenorth — the only living 
pledge of her who is now an angel in heaven— to have remained in 
this seclusion without the surest knowledge of all her material ac- 
tions? 1 have, in person, seen more, both of her and of you, than 
you could be aware of ; and when absent in the body, 1 had the 
means of maintaining the same superintendence. Young man, they 
say that such love as you entertain for my daughter teaches much 
subtil t}'-; but believe not that it can overreach the affection which a 
widowed father bears to an only child.” 

“If,” said Julian, his heart beating thick and joyfully, if you 
have known this intercourse so long, may I not hope that it has not 
met your disapprobation?” 

The major paused for an instant, and then answered, “ In some 
respects, certainly not. Had it done so— had there seemed aught 
on your side, or on my daughter’s, to have rendered your visits here 
dangerous to her, or displeasing to me, she had not been long the 
inhabitant of this solitude, or of this island. But be not so hasty as 
to presume that all which you may desire in this matter can be 
either easily or speedily accomplished.” 

‘‘1 foresee, indeed, difficulties,” answered Julian; “but with 
your kind acquiescence, they are such as 1 trust to remove. My 
father is generous — my mother is candid and liberal. They loved 
you once; 1 trust they will love you again. 1 will be the mediator 
betwixt you— peace and harmony shall once mure inhabit our neigh- 
Whood, and — ” 

Bridgenorth interrupted him with a grim smile; for such it 
seemed, as it passed over a face of deep melancholy. “ My daugh- 
ter well said, but short while past, that you were a dreamer of 
dreams — an architect of plans and hopes fantastic as the visions of 
the night. It is a great thing you ask of me; the hand of. my only 
child— the sum of my worldly substance, though that is but dross 
in comparison. You ask the key of the only fountain from which 
1 may yet hope to drink one pleasant draught; you ask to be the 
sole and absolute keeper of my earthly happiness— and what have 
you offered, or what have you to offer, in return of the surrender 
you require of me?” 

‘‘Jam but too sensible,” said Peveril, abashed at his own hasty 
conclusions, ‘‘ how diflacult it may be.” 

‘‘ ISay, but interrupt me not,” replied Bridgenorth, ” till 1 show 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


140 

you the amount of what you offer me in exchange for a boon, "which, 
whatever may be its intrinsic value, is earnestly desired by 3 ou, and 
comprehends all that is valuable on earth which 1 have it in ray 
power to bestow. You may have heard, that in the late times I was 
the antagonist of your father's principles and his profane faction, 
but not the enemy of his person. ” 

“ 1 have ever heard,” replied Julian, “ much the contrary; and it 
was but now that 1 reminded you that you had been his friend.” 

“Ay. When he w^as in affliction and I in prosperity, 1 was 
neither unwilling, nor altogether unable, to show myself such. 
Well, the tables are turned— the times are changed. A peaceful and 
unoffending man might have expected from a neighbor, now power- 
ful in his turn, such a protection, when walking in the paths of the 
law, as all men, subjects of the same realm, have a right to expect 
even from perfect strangers. What chances? 1 pursue, with the 
warrant of the king and law, a murderess, bearing on her hand the 
blood of my near connection, and I had, in such a case, a right to 
call on every liege subject to render assistance to the execution. My 
late friendly neighbor, bound, as a man and a magistrate, to give 
ready assistance to a legal action — bound, as a grateful and obliged 
friend, to respect my rights and my person — thrusts himself betwixt 
me— me, the avenger of blood — and my lawful captive; beats me to 
the earth, at once endangering my life, and, in mere human eyes, 
sullying mine honor; and under his protection, the Midianitish 
woman reaches, like a sea-eagle, the nest which she hath made in 
the wave- surrounded rocks, and remains there till gold, duly admin- 
istered at court, wipes out all memory of her crime, and baffles the 
vengeance due to the memory of the best and bravest of men. 
But,” he added, apostrophizing the portrait of Christian, " thou art 
not yet forgotten, my fair-haired William! The vengeance which 
dogs thy murderess Is slow — but it is sure!” 

There was a pause of some moments, which Julian Peveril, will- 
ing to hear to what conclusion Major Bridgenorth was finally to 
arrive, did not care to interrupt. Accordingly, in a few minutes, 
the latter proceeded. “ These things,” he said, “ 1 recall not in bit- 
terness, sp tar as they are personal to me — I recall them not in spite 
of heart, though they have been the means of banishing me from 
my place of residence, where my fathers dwelt, and where mj’- earthly 
comforts lie interred. But the public cause sets further strife be- 
twixt your father and me. Who so active as he to execute the fatal 
edict of black St. Bartholomew’s day, when so many hundreds of 
gospel-preachers were expelled from house and home —from hearth 
and altar — from church and parish, to make room for belly-gods- 
and thieves? Who, when a devoted few of the Lord’s people were 
united to lift the fallen standard, and once more advance the good 
cause, was the readiest to break their purpose — to search tor, per- 
secute, and apprehend them? Whose breatli did 1 feel warm on my 
neck — whose naked sword was thrust within a foot of my body, 
whilst 1 lurked darkling, like a thief in concealment, in the house of 
my fathers? It was Geoffrey Peveril’s — it was your father’s! What 
can you answer to all this, 01 how can you reconcile it with your 
present wishes?” 

Julian, in reply, could only remark, “ That these injuries had 


PEVEEIL OE THE PEAK. 


141 

been of long standing— that they had been done in heat of times, 
and heat of temper, and that Master Bridgeuorth, in Christian kind- 
ness, should not entertain a keen resentment of them, when a door 
was opened for reconciliation.” 

‘‘ Peace, young man,” said Bridgenorth, “ thou speakest of thou 
knowest not what. To forgive our human wrongs is Christian-like 
and commendable; but we have no commission to forgive tliose 
which have been done to the cause of religion and of liberty; we 
have no right to grant immunity, or to shake hands with those who 
have poured forth the blood of our brethren.” He looked at the 
picture of Christian, and was silent for a few minutes, as if he feared 
to give too violent way to his own impetuosity, and resumed the 
discourse in a milder tone. 

” These things I point out to you, Julian, that 1 may show you 
how impossible, in the eyes of a merely worldly man, would be the 
union which you are desirous of. But Heaven hath at times opened 
a door, where man beholds no means of issue. Julian, your 
mother, for one to whom the truth is unknown, is, after the fashion 
of the world, one of the best, and one of the wisest of women ; and 
Providence, which gave her so fair a form, and tenanted that form 
with a mind as pure as the original frailty of our vile nature will 
permit, means not, 1 trust, that she shall coutinue to the end to be a 
vessel of wrath and perdition. Of your father 1 say nothing— he is 
what the times and example of others, and the counsels of his lordly 
priest, have made him; and of him, once more, 1 say nothing, save 
that 1 have power over him, which ere now he might have felt, but 
that there is one within his chambeis, who might have suffered in 
his sufiering. Nor do 1 wish to root up your ancient family. If 1 
prize not your boast of family honors and pedigree, I would not 
willingly destroy them; more than 1 w'ould pull down a moss-grown 
tower, or hew to the ground an ancient oak, save for the straighten- 
ing of the common path, and the advantage of the public. 1 have, 
therefore, no resentment against the humbled House of Peveril — nay, 
*I have regard to it in its depression.” 

He here made a second pause, as if he expected Julian to say some- 
thing. But notwithstanding the ardor with which the young man 
had pressed his suit, he was too much trained in ideas of the im- 
portance of his family, and in the better habit of respect for his par- 
ents, to hear, without displeasure, some part of Bridgeuorth ’s dis- 
course. 

” The House of Peveril,” he replied, ” was never humbled.” 

” Had you said the sons of that house had never been humble,'* 
answered Bridgenorth, “jmu would have come nearer the truth. 
Are you not humbled ? Live you not here, the lackey of a haughty 
woman, the play-companion of an empty youth? If you leave this 
isle, and go to the Court of England, see wLat regard ivill there be 
paid to the old pedigree that deduces j^our descent from kings and 
conquerors. A scurril or obscene jest, an impudent carriage, a 
laced cloak, a handful of gold, and the readiness to wager it on a 
card, or a die, will better advance you at the Court of Charles, than 
your father’s ancient name, and slavish devotion of blood and fort- 
une to the cause of his father.” 

“That is, indeed, but too probable,” said Peveril; “but the 


142 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


court shall be no element of mine. I will^ live like^ mj fathers, 
among my people, care for their comforts, decide their differences — 

“ Huild Maypoles, and dance around them,” said Bridgenorth, 
with another of those grim smiles which passed over his features 
like the light of a sexton’s torch, as it glares and is reflected by the 
window of the church when he comes from locking a funeral 
vault. ” No, Julian, these are not times in which, by the dreaming 
drudgery of a country magistrate, and the petty cares of a country 
proprietor, a man can serve his unhappy country. There are mighty 
designs afloat, and men are called to make their choice betwixt God 
and Baal. The ancient superstition— the abomination of our fathers 
— is raising its head, and flinging abroad its snares, under the protec- 
tion of the princes of the earth; but she raises not her head unmarked 
or unwatched; the true English hearts are as thousands, which wait 
but a signal to arise as one man, and show the kings of the earth 
that they have combined in vain! We will cast their cords from us 
— the cup of their abominations we will not taste.” 

“You speak in darkness. Master Bridgenorth,” said Peveril. 
“ Knowing so much of me, you may, perhaps, also be aware, that I 
at least have seen too much of the delusions of Kome, to desire that 
they should be propagated at home.” 

“ Else, wherefore do 1 speak to thee friendly and so free!” said 
Bridgenorth. “ Do 1 not know, with what readiness of early wit 
you baflJed the wily attempts of the woman’s priest, to seduce'thee 
from the Protestant faith? Do 1 not know, how thou wast beset 
when abroad, and that thou didst both hold thine own faith, and 
secure the wavering belief of thy friend? Said 1 not, this was done 
like the son of Margaret Peveril? Said 1 not, he holdeth, as yet, but 
the dead letter— but the seed which is sown shall one day sprout 
and quicken? Enough, however, of this. For to-day this is thy 
habitation. 1 will see in thee neither the servant of that daughter 
of Eshbaal, nor the son of him who pursued my life, and blemished 
my honors; but thou shalt be to me, for this day, as the child of 
her without whom my house had been extinct.” 

So saying, he stretched out his thin, bony hand, and grasped that 
of Juli^ Peveril; but there was such a look of mourning in his 
welcome, that whatever delight the j outh anticipated, spending so 
long a time in the neighborhood of Alice Bridgenorth, perhaps in her 
society, or however strongly he felt the prudence of conciliating her 
father’s good-will, he could not help feeling as if his heart was 
chilled in his company. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

This day at least is friendship’s— on the morrow 
Let strife come an she will. 

Otway. 

Deborah Debbitch, summoned by her mader, now made her 
appearance, with her handkerchief at her eyes, and an appearance 
of great mental trouble. “ It was not my fault, Major Bridgenorth,” 
she said; “how could I help it? like will to like— the boy would 
come — the girl would see him. ”” 

“ Peace, 'foolish woman,” said Bridgenorth, “and hear what 1 
have got to say. ” 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


143 

“ 1 know what your honor has to say well enough,” said De- 
borah. ” Service, 1 wot, is no inheritance nowada3’^s— some are 
wiser than other some— it 1 had not been wheedled away from Mar- 
tindale, 1 might have had a house of mine own by this time.” 

” Peace, idiot!” said Bridgenorth; but so intent was Deborah on 
her vindication, that he could but thrust the interjection, as it were 
edgewise, between her exclamations, which followed as thick as is 
usual in cases, where folks endeavor to avert deserved censure by a 
clamorous justification ere the charge be brought. 

‘‘No wonder she was cheated,” she said, “out of sight of her 
own interest, whe^ it was to wait on pretty Miss Alice. All your 
honor’s gold should never have tempted me, but that 1 knew she 
was but a dead castaway, poor innocent, if she were taken away 
from my lady or me. And so this is the end on’t! up early, and 
down late — ^^and this is all my thanks! But your honor had better 
take care what you do — she has the short cough yet sometimes — and 
should take physic, spring and fall.” 

” Peace, chattering fool!” said her master, so soon as her failing 
breath gave him an opportunity to strike in, ‘‘ thinkest thou 1 knew 
not of this young gentleman’s visits to the Black Fort, and that, if 
they had displeased me, 1 would not have known how to stop 
them?” 

*' Did 1 know that your honor knew of his visits!” exclaimed Deb- 
orah, in a triumphant tone — for, like most of her condition, she 
never sought further for her defense than a lie, however inconsist- 
ent and improbable. '"Did 1 know that your honor knew of it! 
Why, how should 1 have permitted his visits else! I wonder what 
your honor takes me for! Had 1 not been sure it was. the thing in 
this world that your honor most desired, would 1 have presumed to 
lend it a hand forward? 1 trust I know my duty better. Hear if I 
ever asked another youngster into the house, save himself— for 1 
knew your honor was wise, and quarrels cannot last forever, and 
love begins where hatred ends; and, to be sure, they love as if they 
were born one for the other— and then, the estates of Moultrassie and 
Martindale suit each other like sheath and knife.” 

” Parrot of a woman, hold your tongue?” said Bridgenorth, his 
patience almost completely exhausted, ” or, if you will prate, let it 
be to your playfellows in the kitchen, and bid them get ready some 
dinner presently, for Master Peveril is far from home.” 

“That 1 will, and with all my heart,” said Deborah; “and if 
there are a pair of fatter fowls in Man than shall clap their wings on 
the table presently, your honor shall call me a goose as well as par- 
rot.” She then left the apartment. • 

” It is to such a woman as that,” said Bridgenorth, looking after 
her significantly, ” tbat you conceived me to have abandoned the 
charge of my only child! But enough of this subject— we will walk 
abroad, if you will, while she is engaged in a province fitter for her 
understanding.” 

So saying, he left the house, accompanied by Julian Peveril, and 
they were soon walking side by side, as if they had been old ac- 
quaintances. 

It may have happened to many of our readers, as it has done to 
ourselves, to be thrown by accident into society with some individ- 


PEVEKIL OE THE PEAK. 


144 

ual whose claims to what is called a serious character stand consid- 
erably higher than our own, and with whom, therefore, we have 
conceived ourselves likely to spend our time in a very stiff, and con- 
strained manner; while, on the other hand, our destined companion 
may have apprehended some disgust from the supposed levity and 
thoughtless gayety of a disposition so different from his own. Now 
it has frequently happened, that when we, with that urbanity and 
good-humor which is our principal characteristic, have accommo- 
dated ourself to our companion, by throwing as much seriousness 
into our conversation as our habits will admit, he, on the other hand, 
moved by our liberal example, hath divested his manners of a part 
of their austerity; and our conversation has, in consequence, been of 
that pleasant texture, betwixt the useful and agreeable, which best 
resembles “ the fairy- web of night and day,” usually called in prose 
the twilight. It is probable both parties may, on such occasions, 
have been the better for their encounter, even if it went no further 
than to establish for the time a community of feeling between men, 
who, sepal ated more perhaps by temper than by principle, are too 
apt to charge each other with profane frivolity on the one hand, or 
fanaticism on the other. 

It faied thus in Peveril’s walk with Bridgenorth, and in the con- 
versation which he held with him. 

Carefully avoiding the subject pn which he had already spoken. 
Major Bridgenorth turned his conversation chiefly on foreign travel, 
and on the wonders he had seen in distant countries, and which he 
appeared to have marked with a curious and observant eye. This 
discourse made the time fly light away; for although the anecdotes 
and observations thus communicated were all tinged with the serious 
and almost gloomy spirit of the narrator, they yet contained traits of 
interest and of wonder, such as are usually interesting to a youth- 
ful ear, and were particularly so to Julian, who had, in his disposi- 
tion, some cast of the romantic and adventurous. 

It appeared that Biidgenorth knew the south of France, and could 
tell many stories of the Fiench Huguenots, who already began to 
sustain those vexations which a few years afterward were summed 
up by the revocation of the Edict of Nantz. He had even been in 
Hungary, for he spoke as from personal knowledge of the character 
of several of the heads of the great Protestant insurrection, which at 
this time had taken place under the celebrated Tekeli; and laid down 
solid reasons why they were entitled to make common cause with the 
Great Turk, rather than submit to the Pope of Rome. He talked 
also of Savoy, where those of the reformed religion still suffered a 
cruel persecution; and he mentioned, with a swelling spirit, the 
protection which Oliver had afforded to the oppressed Protestant 
churches; “ therein showing himself,” he added, “ more fit. to wield 
the supreme power, than those who, claiming it by rigiit of inherit- 
ance, use it only for their own vain and voluptuous pursuits.” 

” I did not expect,” said Peveril, modestly, “ to have heaid Oli- 
ver’s panegyric from you. Master Bidgenorth.” 

“1 do not panegyrize him,” answered Bridgenorth, “1 
speak but truth of that extraordinary man, now being dead, whom, 
when alive, 1 feared not to withstand to his face. It is the fault 
of the present unhappy king if he make us look back with 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


145 

Tegret to the days when the nation was respected abroad, and 
when devotion and sobriety were practiced at home. But 1 mean 
not to vex your spirit by controversy. You have lived amongst 
those who find it more easy and more pleasant to be the pensioners 
of France than her controllers — to spend the money which she doles 
out to themselves, than to check the tyranny with which she op- 
presses our poor brethren ot the religion. When the scales shall fall 
from thine eyes, all this thou shalt see; and seeing, shalt learn to 
detest and despise it. ” 

By this time they had completed their walk, and were returned to 
the Black Fort by a different path from that which had led them up 
the valley. The exercise and the general tone of conversation had 
removed, in some degree, the shyness and embarrassment which 
Peveril originally felt in Bridgenorth’s presence, and which the 
tenor of his first remarks had rather increased than diminished. 
Deborah’s promised banquet was soon on the board ; and in simplic- 
ity, as well as neatness and good order, answered the character she 
had claimed for it. In one respect alone, there seemed some incon- 
sistency, perhaps a little affectation. Most of the dishes were of 
silver, and the plates were of the same metal ; instead of the 
trenchers and pewter which Peveril had usually seen employed on 
similar occasions at the Black Fort. 

Presently, with the feeling of one who walks in a pleasant dream 
from which he fears to awake, and whose delight is mingled with 
wonder and with uncertainty, Julian Peveril found himself seated 
between Alice Bridgenortli and her father — the being he most loved 
on earth, and the person whom he had ever considered as the great 
obstacle to their intercourse. The confusion of his mind was such, 
that he couJd scarcely reply to the importunate civilities of Dame 
Deborah; who, seated with them at table in her quality of gover- 
nante, now dispensed the good things which had been prepared 
under her own eye. 

As for Alice, she seemed to have formed a resolution to play the 
mute; for she answered not, excepting briefly, to the questions of 
DameDebbitch; nay, even when her father, which happened once or 
twice, attempted to bring her forward in the conversation, she made 
no further reply than respect for lum rendered absolutely necessary. 
Upon Bridgenorth himself, then, devolved the task ot entertaining the 
company ; and, contrary to his ordinary habits, he did not seem to 
shrink from it. His discourse was not only easy, but almost cheeu- 
f ul, though ever and anon crossed by some expressions indicative of 
natural and habitual melancholy, or prophetic of future misfortune 
and woe. Flashes of enthusiasm, too, shot along his conversation, 
gleaming like the sheet-lightning of an autumn eve, which throws a 
strong, though momentary illumination, across the sober twilight, and 
all the surrounding objects, which, touched by it, assume a wilder 
and more striking character. In general, however, Bridgenorth’s 
remarks were plain and sensible ; and as he aimed at no graces of 
language, any ornament which they received aiose out of the interest 
with which they were impressed on his hearers. For example, when 
Deborah, in the pride and vulgarity of her heart, called Julian’s at- 
tention to the plate from which they had been eating, Bridgenorth 
seemed to think an apology necessary for such superfluous expense. 


146 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ It was a symptom,” lie said, ” of approacliini? danger, when 
such men, as were not usually influenced by the vanities of life, em- 
ployed much money in ornaments composed of the precious metals. 
It was a sign that the merchant could not obtain a profit for the cap- 
ital, which, for the sake of security, he invested in this inert form. 
It was a proof that the noblemen or gentlemen feared the rapacity 
of power, when they put their wealth into forms the most portable 
and the most capable of being hidden; and it showed the uncer- 
tainty of credit, when a man of judgment preferred the actual pos- 
session of a mass of silver to the convenience of a goldsmith’s or a 
banker’s receipt. While a shadow of liberty remained,” he said, 

domestic rights were last invaded; and, therefore, men disposed 
upon their cupboards and tables the wealth which in these places 
would remain longest, though not perhaps finally, sacred from the 
grasp of a tyrannical government. But let there be a demand for 
capital to support a profitable commerce, and the mass is at once 
consigned to the furnace, and, ceasing to be a vain and cumbrous 
ornament of the banquet, becomes a potent and active agent for fur- 
thering the prosperity of the country. ’ ’ 

” In war, too,” said Peveril, ” plate has been found a ready re- 
source.” 

“ But too much so,” answered Bridgenorth. ” In the late times, 
the plate of the nobles and gentry, with that of the colleges, and the 
sale of the crown jewels, enabled the king to make his unhappy 
stand, which prevented matters returning to a state of peace and 
good order, until the sword had attained an undue superiority both 
over king and parliament.” 

He looked at Julian as he spoke, much as he who proves a horse 
offers some object suddenly to his eyes, then watches to see if he 
starts or blenches from it. But J ulian’s thoughts were too much bent 
on other topics to manifest any alarm. His answer referred to a pre- 
vious part of Bridgenorth’s discourse, and was not returned till after 
a brief pause. “War, then,” he said, ” war, the grand impov- 
erisher, is also a creator of the wealth which it wastes and devours?” 

“Yes,” replied Bridgenorth, “ even as the sluice brings into action 
the sleeping waters of the lake, which it finally drains. Necessity 
invents arts and discovers means; and what necessity is sterner than 
that of civil war? Therefore, even war is not in itself unmixed evil, 
being the creator of impulses and energies which could not other- 
wise have existed in society.” 

• “Men should go to war, then,” said Peveril, “that they may 
send their silver-plate to the mint, and eat from pewter dishes and 
wooden platters. ’ ’ 

“ Not so, my son,” said Bridgenorth. Then checking himself as 
he observed the deep crimson in Julian’s cheek and brow, he added, 
“ 1 crave your pardon for such familiarity; but I meant not to limit 
what I said even now to such trifling consequences, although it may 
be something salutary to tear men from their pomps and luxuries, 
and teach those to be Komans who would otherwise be Sybarites. 
But I would say, that times of public danger, as they call into cir- 
culation the miser’s hoard and the proud man’s bullion, and so add 
to the circulating wealth of the country, do also call into action 
many a brave and noble spirit, which would otherwise lie torpid. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


ur 

give no example to the living, and bequeath no name to future ages.. 
Societ}^ knows not, and cannot know, the mental treasures which 
slumber in her bosom, till necessity and opportunity call forth the 
statesman and the soldier from the shades of lowly life to the parts 
they are designed by Providence to perform, and the stations which 
nature bad qualified them to hold. So rose 'Oliver— so rose Milton 
— so rose many another name which cannot be forgotten— even as the 
tempest summons forth and displays the address of the mariner.” 

” You speak,” said Peveril, ” as if national calamity might be, in 
some sort, an advantage.” 

” And if it were not so,” replied Bridgenorth, ” it had not existed 
in this state of trial, where all temporal evil is alleviated by some- 
thing good in its progress or result, and where all that is good is 
close coupled with that which is in itself evil.” 

” It must be a noble sight,” said Julian, ” to behold the slumber- 
ing energies of a great mind awakened into energy, and to see it as- 
sume the authority which is its due over spirits more meanly en- 
dowed.” 

”1 once witnessed,” said Bridgenorth, ‘‘something to the same 
effect; and, as the tale is brief. I’ll tell it you, if you will: — 

” Amongst my wanderiugs, the Transatlantic settlements have 
not escaped me; more especially the countrv of New England, into 
which our native land has shaken from her lap, as a drunkard flings 
from him his treasures, so much that is precious in the eyes of God 
and of his children. There thousands of our best and most godly men 
— such whose righteousness mi^ht come between the Almighty and 
his wrath, and prevent the ruin of cities — are content to be the in- 
habitants of the desert, rather encountering the unenlightened sav- 
ages, than stooping to extinguish, under the oppression practiced in 
Britain, the light that is within their own minds. There 1 remained 
for a time, during the wars which the colony maintained with 
Philip, a great Indian Chief, or Sachem, as they were called, who 
seemed a njessenger sent from Satan to buffet them. His cruelty 
was great— his dissimulation profound; and the skill and prompti- 
tude with which he mainlained a destructive and desultory warfare, 
inflicted many dreadful calamities on the settlement. 1 was, by 
chance, at a small village in the woods, more than thirty miles from 
Boston, and in its situation exceedingly lonely, and surrounded with 
thickets. Nevertheless, there was no idea of any danger from the 
Indians at that time, for men trusted to the protection of a consider- 
able body of troops who had taken the field for protection of the 
frontiers, and who lay, or were supposed to lie, betwixt the hamlet 
and the enemy’s country. But they had to do with a foe, whom 
the devil himself had inspired at once with cunning and cruelty. It 
was on a Sabbath morning, when we had assembled to take sweet 
counsel together in the Lord’s house. Our temple was but con- 
structed of wooden logs; but when shall the chant of trained hire- 
lings, or the sounding of tin and brass tubes amid the aisles of a 
minster, arise so sweetly to Heaven, as did the psalm in which we 
united at once our voices and our hearts! An excellent worthy, who 
now sleeps in the Lord, Nehemiah Solsgrace, long the companion of 
my pilgrimage, had just begun to wrestle in prayer, when a woman, 
with disordered looks and disheveled hair, entered our chapel in a 


148 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

distracted manner, screaming incessantly, ‘The Indians! The In- 
dians!’ In that land no man dares separate himself from his means 
of defense; and whether in the city or in the field, in the plowed 
land or the forest, men keep beside them their weapons, as did the 
Jews at the rebuilding of the Temple. So we salliecl forth with our 
guns and pikes, and heard the whoop of these incarnate devils, al- 
ready in possession of a part of the town, and exercising their cruelty 
on the few whom weighty causes or indisposition had withheld from 
public worship; and it was remarked as a judgment, that, upon that 
bloody Sabbath, Adrian Hanson, a Dutchman, a man well enough 
disposed toward man, but wdiose mind was altogether given to 
worldly gain, was shot, and scalped as he was summing his weekly 
gains in his warehouse. In line, there was much damage done; and 
although our arrival and entrance into combat did in soine sort put 
them back, yet being surprised and confused, and having no ap- 
pointed leader of our band, the devilish enemy shot hard at us, and 
had some advantage. It was pitiful to hear the screams of women 
and children amid the report of guns and the whistling of bullets, 
mixed with the ferocious yells of these savages, which they term 
their war-whoop. Several houses in the upper part of the village 
were soon on fire; and the roaring of the flames, and crackling of 
the great beams as they blazed, added to the horrible confusion; 
while the smoke which the wind drove against us gave further ad- 
vantage to the enemy, who fought, as it were, invisible, and under 
cover, whilst we fell fast by their unerring fire. In this state of 
confusion, and while wm were about to adopt the desperate project 
of evacuating the village, and, placing the women and children in 
the center, of attempting a retreat to the nearest settlement, it pleased 
Heaven to send us unexpected assistance. A tall man, of a reverend 
appearance, whom no one of us had ever seen before, suddenly was 
in the midst of us, as we hastily agitated the resolution of retreat- 
ing. His garments were of the skin of the elk, and he wore sword 
and carried gun; 1 never saw anything moie august than his feat- 
ures, overshadowed by locks of gray hair, which mingled with a 
long beard of the same color. ‘ Men and brethren,’ he said, in a 
voice like that which turns back the flight, ‘ why sink your liearfs! 
and why are you thus disquieted! Fear ye that the God we serve 
will give you up to yonder heathen dogs? Follow me, and you shall 
see this day that there is a captain in Israel!’ He uttered a few brief 
but distinct orders, in the tone of one who was accustomed to com- 
mand; and such was the influence of his appearance, his mien, his 
language, and his presence of mind, that he was implicitly obeyed 
by men who had never seen him until that moment. We were hast- 
ily divided, by his orders, into two bodies; one of which maintained 
the defense of the village with more courage than ever, convinced 
that the Unknown was sent by God to our rescue. At his com- 
mand ^ they assumed the best and most sheltered positions for ex- 
changing their deadly fire with the Indians; while, under cover of 
the smoke, the stranger sallied from the town, at the head of the 
other division of the New England men, and, fetching a circuit, at- 
tacked the Red Warriors in the rear. The surprise, as is usual 
amongst savages, had complete effect, for they doubted not that they 
were assailed in their turn, and placed betwixt two hostile parties by 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


149 


the return of a detachment from the provincial army. The heathens 
fled in confusion, abandoning the half-won village, and leaving be- 
hind them such a number of their warriors, that the tribe hath never 
recovered its loss. Never ^hall 1 forget tne figure of our venerable 
leader, when our men, and not they only, but the women and chil- 
dren of the village, rescued from the tomahawk and scalping-knife, 
stood crowded around him, yet scarce venturing to approach his 
person, and more minded, perhaps, to worship him as a descended 
angel, than to thank him as a fellow-mortal. ‘ Not unto me be the 
glory,’ he said; ‘ 1 am but an implement, frail as yourselves, in the 
hand of Him who is strong to deliver. Bring me a cup of water, 
that 1 may allay my parched throat, ere 1 essay the task of oftering 
thanks where they are most due. ’ 1 was nearest to him as he spoke, 
and 1 gave into his hand the water he requested. At that moment 
we exchanged glances, and it seemed to me that I recognized a no- 
ble friend whom 1 had long since deemed in glory; but he gave me 
no time to speak, had speech been prudent. Sinking on his knees, 
and signing us to obey him, he poured forth a strong and energetic 
thanksgiving for the turning back of the battle, which, pronounced 
with a' voice loud and clear as a war-trumpet, thrilled through the 
joints and marrow of the hearers. 1 have heard many an act of 
devotion in my life, had Heaven vouchsafed me grace to profit by 
them ; but such a prayer as this amid the dead and the dying, with 
a rich tone of mingled triumph and adoration, was beyond them all 
— it was like the song of the inspired prophetess who dw'elt beneath 
the palm-tree between Ramah and Bethel. He was silent; and for a 
brief space we remained with our faces bent to the earth — no man 
daring to lift his head. At length we looked up, but our deliverer 
was no longer amongst us ; nor was he ever again seen in the land 
which he had rescued.” 

Here Bridgenorth, who had told this singular story with an elo- 
quence and vivacity of detail very contrary to the usual dryness of 
his conversation, paused for an instant, and then resumed— “ Thou 
seest, young man, that men of valor and of discretion are called forth 
to command in circumstances of national exigence, though their very 
existence is unknown in the land which they are predestined to de- 
liver.” ’’ 

‘‘ But what thought the people of the mysterious stranger?” said 
Julian, who had listened with eagerness, for the story was of a kind 
inteiesting to the youthful and the brave. 

‘‘ Many things,” answered Bridgenorth, ” and, as usual, little to 
the purpose. The prevailing opinion was, notwithstanding his own 
disclamation, that the stranger was really a supernatural being; 
others believed him an inspired champion, transported in the body 
from some distant climate, to show us the w'ay to safety; others, 
again, concluded that he was a recluse, who, either from motives of 
piety, or other cogent reasons, had become a dweller in the wilder- 
ness, and shunned the face of man.” 

‘‘And, if I may presume to ask,” said Julian, “ to which of 
these opinions were you disposed to adhere?” 

‘‘ The last suited best with the transient though close view with 
which 1 had perused the stranger’s features,” replied Bridgenorth; 
“for although 1 dispute not that it may please Heaven, on high 


150 PEVERTL THE PEAK. 

occasions, even to raise one from the dead in defense of his county, 
yet 1 doubted not then, as 1 doubt not now, that 1 looked on the liv- 
ing form of one, who had indeed powerful reasons to conceal him in 
the cleft of the rock.” 

“ Are these reasons a secret?” asked Julian Peveril. 

“Not properly a secret,” replied Bridgenorth; “for 1 fear not 
thy betraying what I might tell thee in private discourse; and be- 
sides, wert thou so base, the prey lies too distant for any hunters to 
whom thou couldst point out its traces. But the name of this 
worthy will sound harsh in thy ear, on account of one action of .his 
life — being his accession to a great measure, which made the ex- 
treme isles of the earth to tremble. Have you never heard of Rich- 
ard PFhalley?” 

“ Of the regicide?” exclaimed Peveril, starting. 

“ Call his act whatihou wilt,” said Bridgenorth; “ he was not less 
the rescuer of that devoted village, that with other leading spirits of 
the age, he sat in the judgment-seat when Chailes Stewart was ar- 
raigned at the bar, and subscribed the sentence that went forth upon 
him.” 

“ 1 have ever heard,” said Julian, in an altered voice, and color- 
ing deeply, “ that j’^ou, Master Bridgenorth, with other Presbyte- 
rians, were totally averse to that detestable crime, and were ready to 
have made joint cause with the Cavaliers in preventing so horrible a 
parricide.” 

“ If it. were so,” replied Bridgenorth, “ we have been richly re- 
warded by his successor.” 

“Rewarded!” exclaimed Julian; “does the distinction of good 
and evil, and our obligation to do the one and forbear the other, de- 
pend on the reward which may attach to our actions?” 

“ God forbid!” answered Bridgenorth; “ yet those who view the 
havoc which this house of Stewart have made in the Church and 
State — the tyranny which they exercise over men’s persons and con- 
sciences — may well doubt whether it be lawful to use weapons in 
their defense. Yet you hear me not praise, or even vindicate, the 
death of the king, though so far deserved, as he was false to his 
oath as a prince and magistrate. 1 only tell you what you desired 
to know, that Richard Whalley, one of the late king’s judges, was 
he of whom 1 have just been speaking. 1 knew his lofty brow, 
though time had made it balder and higher; his gray eye retained all 
its luster; and though the grizzled beard covered the lower part of 
his face, it prevented me not from recognizing him. The scent was 
hot after him for his blood; but by the assistance of those friends 
whom Heaven had raised up for his preservation, he was concealed 
carefully, and emerged only to do the will of Providence in the mat- 
ter of that battle, Perhaps his voice may be heard in the field once 
more, should England need one of her noblest hearts.”* 

“ Now, God forbid!” said Julian. 

“ Amen,” returned Bridgenorth. “ May God avert civil war, and 
pardon those whose madness would bring it on us!” 

There was a . long pause, during which Julian, who had scarcely 
lifted his eyes toward Alice, stole a glance in that direction, and was 


* See Note I. Whalley the Regicide. 


PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


151 

struck by the deep cast of melancholy which had stolen over her 
features, to which a cheerful, if not gay expression, was most natu- 
ral. So soon as she caught his eye, she remarked, and, as Julian 
thought, with significance, that the shadows were lengthening, and 
evening coming on. 

He heard ; and although satisfied that she hinted at his departure, 
he could not, upon the instant, find resolution to break the spell 
which detained him. The language which Bridgenorth held was 
not only new and alarming, but so contrary to the maxims in which 
he was brought up, that, as a son of Sir Geoffrey Peveiil of the 
Peak, he would in another case have thought himself called upon to 
dispute its conclusions, even at the sword’s point. But Bridge- 
north’s opinions were delivered with so much calmness— seemed so 
much the result of conviction — that they excited in Julian rather a 
spirit of wonder, than of angry controversy. There was a character 
of sobei decision, and sedate melancholy, in all that he said, which, 
even had he not been the father of Alice, (and perhaps Julian was 
not himself aware how much he was influenced by that circum- 
stance,) would have rendered it difficult to take personal offense. 
His language and sentiments were of that quiet, yet decided kind, 
upon which it is difficult either to fix controversy, or quarrel, 
although it be impossible to acquiesce in the conclusions to which 
the}’’ lead. 

While Julian remained, as if spell-bound to his'chair, scarce more 
surprised at the company in which he found himself, than at the 
opinions to which he was listening, another circumstance reminded 
him that the pioper time of his stay at Black Fort had been expend- 
ed. Little Fairy, the Manx pony, which, well accustomed to the 
vicinity of Black Fort, used to feed near the house while her master 
made his visits there, began to find his present stay rather too long. 
She had been the gift of the countess to Julian, whilst a youth, and 
came of a high-spirited mountain breed, remarkable alike for hardi- 
ness, for longevity, and for a degree of sagacity approaching to that 
of the dog. Fairy showed the latter quality, by the way in which she 
chose to express her impatience to be moving homeward. At least 
such seemed the purpose of the shrill neigh with which she startled 
the female inmates of the parlor, who, the moment afterward, could 
not forbear smiling to see the nose of the pony advanced through 
the opened casement. 

“Fairy reminds me,” said Julian, looking to Alice, and rising, 
“ that the term of my stay here is exhausted.” 

“ Speak with me yet one moment,” said Bridgenorth, withdraw- 
ing him into a Gothic recess of the old-fashioned apartment, and 
speaking so low that he could not be overheard by Alice and her 
governante, who, in the meantime, caressed, and fed with fragments 
of bread the intruder Fairy. 

“ You have not, after all,” said Bridgenorth, “ told me the cause 
of your coming hither.” He stopped, as if to enjoy his embarrass- 
ment, and then added, “ And indeed it were most unnecessary that 
you should do so. 1 have not so far forgotten the days of my youth, 
or those affections which bind poor frail humanity but too much to 
the things of this w^orld. Will you find no words to ask of me the 
great boon which you seek, and which, peradventure, you would 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


152 

not have hesitated to have made your o\\m, without my knowledge, 
and against my consent? Nay, never vindicate thyself, but mark 
me further. The patriarch bought his beloved by fourteen years’ 
hard service to her father Laban, and they seemed to him but as a 
few days. But he that would wed my daughter must serve, in 
comparison, but a few days ; though in matters of such mighty im- 
port, that they shall seem as the service of many years. Reidy not 
to me now, but go, and peace be with you. ’’’ 

He retired so quickly, after speaking, that Peveril had literally not 
an instant to reply. He cast his eyes around the apartment, but Deb- 
orah and her charge had also disappeared. His gaze rested for a 
moment on the portrait of Christian, and his imagination suggested, 
that his dark features were illuminated by a smile of haughty tri- 
umph. He stared, and looked more attentively — it was but the effect 
of the evening beam, which touched the picture at the instant. The 
effect was gone, and there remained but the fixed, grave, inflexible 
features of the republican soldier. 

Julian left the apartment as one who walks in a dream; he mount- 
ed Fairy, and, agitated by a variety of thoughts, which he was un- 
able to reduce to order, he returned to Castle-Rushin before the 
night sat down. 

Here he found all in movement. The countess, with her son, had, 
upon some news received, or resolution formed, during his absence, 
removed, with a principal part of their family, to (he yet stronger 
castle of Holm-Peel, about eight miles distance across the island; 
and which had been suffered to fall into a much more dilapidated 
condition than that of Castletown; so far as it could be considered 
as a place of residence. But as a fortress, Holm-Peel was stronger 
than Castletown; nay, unless assailed regularly, was almost impreg- 
nable; and was always held by a garrison belonging to the Lords of 
Man. Here Peveril arrived at nightfall. He was told in the fishing- 
village, that the night-bell of the Castle had been rung earlier than 
usual, and the watch set with circumstances of unusual and iealous 
precaution. 

Resolving, therefore, not to disturb the garrison by entering at 
that late hour, he obtained an indifferent lodging in the town for the 
night, and determined to go to the Castle early on the succeeding 
morning. He was not sorry thus to gain a few hours of solitude, to 
think over the agitating events of the preceding day. 

CHAPTER XV. 

What seem’d its head, 

The likeness of a kingly crown had on. 

Paradise Lost. 

SoDOB, or Holm-Peel,* so is named the castle to which our Julian 
directed his course early on the following morning, is one of those 
extraordinary monuments of antiquity with which this singular and 
interesting island abounds. It occupies the whole of a high rocky 
peninsula, or rather an island, for it is surrounded by the sea at high 

* See Note K. Sodor, or Holm-Peel, in the Isle of Man, 


PEVEIIIL OF THE PEAK. 


153 

water, and scarcely accessible even when the tide is out, although a 
stone causeway, of great solidity, erected for the express purpose, 
connects the island with the mainland.. The whole space is sur- 
rounded by double walls of great strength and thickness; and the 
access to the interior at the time which we treat of, was only by two 
flights of steep and narrow steps, divided from each other by a strong 
tower and guard-house; under the former of which, there is an 
entrance-arch. The open space within the walls extend to two 
acres, and contains many objects, worthy of antiquarian curiosity. 
There were, beside the castle itself, two cathedral churches, dedicat- 
ed, the earlier to Saint Patrick, the latter to Saint Germain; besides 
two smaller churches ; all of which had become, even in that day, 
more or less ruinous. Their decayed walls, exhibiting the rude and 
massive architecture of the most remote period, were composed of a 
ragged gray -stone, which formed a singular contrast with the bright 
red freestone of which the window-cases, corner-stones, arches, and 
other ornamental parts of the building were composed. 

Beside these four ruinous churches, the space of ground inclosed 
by the massive exterior walls of Holm-Peel, exhibited many other 
vestiges of the olden time. There was a square mound of earth, 
facing, with its angles to the points of the compass, one of those 
motes, as they were called, on which, in ancient times, the northern 
tribes elected or recognized their chiefs, and held their solemn 
popular asserhblies, or comitia. There was also one of those singu- 
lar towers, so common in Ireland as to have proved the favorite 
theme of her antiquaries; but of which the real use and meaning 
seems yet to be hidden in the mist of ages. This of Holm-Peel had 
been converted to the purpose of a watch-tower. There were, be- 
side, Runic monuments, of which the legends could not be deciph- 
ered; and later inscriptions to the memory of champions, of whom 
the names only were preserved from oblivion. But tradition and 
superstitious eld, still most busy where real history is silent, had 
filled up the long blank of accurate information with tales of Sea- 
kings and pirates, Hebridean chiefs and Norwegian Resolutes, who 
had formerly warred against, and in defense of, this famous castle. 
Superstition, too, had her tales of fairies, ghosts, and specters — her 
legends of saints and demons, of fairies and of familiar spirits, which 
in no corner of the British empire are told and received with more 
absolute credulity than in the Isle of Man. 

Amidst all these ruins of an older time arose the castle itself — now 
ruinous— but in Charles II’s reign was well garrisoned, and, in a 
military point of view, kept in complete order. It was a venerable 
and very ancient building, containing several apartments of sufli- 
cient size and height to be termed noble. But in the surrender of the 
island by Christian, the furniture had been, in a great measure 
plundered or destroyed by the republican soldiers; so that, as we 
have before hinted, its present state was ill adapted for the residence 
of the noble proprietor. Yet it had been often the abode, not only 
of the Lords of Man, but of those state prisoners whom the Kings of 
Britain sometimes committed to their charge. 

In this Castle of Holm-Peel the great king-maker, Richard, Earl 
of AYarwick, was confined, during one period of his eventful life, to 
ruminate at leisure on his further schemes of ambition. And here, 


154 


PEVEllIL OF THE PEAK. 


too, Eleanor, tlie liaiiglity wife of the good Duke of Gloucester^ 
pined out in seclusion the last days of her banishment- The senti- 
nels pretended that her discontented specter was often visible at 
night, traversing the battlements of the external walls, or standing 
motionless beside a particular solitary turret of one of the watch- 
towers with which they are flanked; but dissolving into air at 
cock- crow, or^when the bell tolled from the yet remaining tower of 
St.' Germain’s church. 

Such was Holm-Peel, as records inform us, till toward the end of 
the seventeenth century. 

It was in one of the lofty but almost unfurnished apartments of 
this ancient castle that Julian Peveril found his friend the Earl of 
Derby, who had that moment sat down to a iDreakfast composed of 
various sorts of fish. “ ’Welcome, most imperial Julian,” he said; 

” welcome to our royal fortress; in which, as yet, we are not like to 
be. starved with hunger, though well-nigh dead for cold.” 

Julian answered by inquiring the meaning of this sudden move- 
ment. 

” Upon my word,” replied the earl, ” you know nearly as much 
as 1 do. My mother has told me nothing about it, supposing, I be- 
lieve, that 1 shall at length be tempted to inquire; but she will find 
herself much mistaken. 1 shall give her credit for full wisdom in 
her proceedings, rather than put her to the trouble to render a reason, 
though no woman can render one better.” 

” Come, come; this is affectation, my good friend,” said Julian. 

” You should inquire into these matters a little more curiously.” 

” To what purpose?” said the earl. “ To hear old stories about 
the Tinwald laws, and the contending rights of the lords and the 
clergy, and all the rest of that Celtic barbarism, which, like 
Burgesse’s fhorough-paced doctrines, enters at one ear, paces 
through, and goes out at the other?” 

” Come, my lord,” said Julian, ” you are not so indifferent as you 
would represent yourself — you are dying of curiosity, to know what 
this hurry is about; only you think it the courtly humor to appear 
careless about your own affairs.” 

“Why, what should it be about,” said the young earl, “unless 
some factious dispute between our majesty’s minister. Governor 
Nowel, and our vassals? or perhaps some dispute betwdxt our 
majesty and the ecclesiastical jurisdictions? for all which our 
majesty' cares as little as any king in Christendom.” 

“ 1 rather suppose there is intelligence from England,” said Julian. 
“ 1 heard last night in Peel-town, that Greenhalgh is come over' 
with unpleasant news.” 

“ He brought me nothing that was pleasant, 1 wot well,” said the 
earl. “ 1 expected something from St. Evremond or Hamilton — 
some new plays by Dr)'-den or Lee, and some waggery or lampoons 
from the Rose Coffee-house; and the fellow has brought me nothing 
but a parcel of tracts about Protestants and Papists, and a folio play- 
book, one of the conceptions, as she calls them, of that old mad- 
woman, the Duchess of Newcastle.” 

“ Hush, my lord, for Heaven’s sake,” said Peveril; “ here comes 
the countess; and you know she takes fire at the least slight to her 
ancient friend.” 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


155 

“ Let her read her ancient triend’s works herself, then,” said the 
earl, ” and think tei as wise as she can; but I would not give one 
of "Waller’s songs, or Denham’s satires, tor a whole cart-load of her 
grace’s trash. But here comes our mother with care on her l5row.” 

The Countess of Derby entered the apartment accordingly, holding 
in her hand a number of papers. Her dress was a mourning habit, 
with a deep train of black velvet, which was borne by a little favor- 
ite attendaift, a deaf and dumb girl, whom, in compassion to her 
misfortune, the countess had educated about her person lor some 
years. Upon this unfortunate being, with the touch of romance 
which marked many of her proceedings. Lady Derby had conferred 
the name of Fenella, after some ancient princess of the island. The 
countess herself was not much changed since we last presented her 
to our readers. Age had rendered her step more slow, but not less 
majestic; and while it traced some wrinkles on her brow, had failed 
to quench the sedate fire of her dark eye. The young men rose to 
receive her with the formal reverence which they knew she loved, 
and were greeted by her with equal kindness. 

” Cousin Peveril,” she said (for so she always called Julian, in 
respect of his mother being a kinswoman of her husband), “you 
were ill abroad last night, when we much needed your counsel.’^ 

Julian answered with a blush which he could not prevent, ” That 
he had followed his sport among the mountains too far— had returned 
late — and finding lier ladyship was removed from Castletown, had 
instantly followed the family hither; but as the night- bell was rung 
and the watch set, he had deemed it more respectful to lodge for the 
night in the town. ’ ’ 

” It is well,” said the countess; ” and, to do yori justice, Julian, 
you are seldom a truant neglecter of appointed hours, though, like 
the rest of the youth of this age, you sometimes suffer your sports to 
consume too much of time that should be spent otherwise. But for 
your friend Philip, he is an avowed contemner of good order, and 
seems to find pleasure in wasting time, even when he does not en- 
joy it.” 

” 1 have been enjoying my time just now at least,” said the .earl, 
rising from table, and picking his teeth carelessly. ‘‘These fresh 
mullets are delicious, and so is the Lachrymse Christi. 1 pray you 
to sit down to breakfast, Julian, and partake the goods my royal, 
foresight has provided. Never was King^ of Man nearer being left 
to the mercy of the execrable brandy of his dominions. Old Griffiths 
would never, in the' midst of our speedy retreat of last night, have 
had sense enough to secure a few flasks, had 1 not given him a hint 
on that important subject. But presence of mind amid danger and 
tumult is a jewel 1 have always possessed. ” 

” 1 wish, then, Philip, you would exert it to better purpose,” said 
the countess, halt smiling, half displeased; for she doted upon her 
son with all a mother’s fondness, even when she was most angiy 
with him for being deficient in the peculiar and chivalrous disposi- 
tion which had distinguished his father, and which was so analo- 
gous to her own romantic and high-minded character. ‘‘ Lend me 
your signet,” she added with a sigh; ‘‘ for it were, 1 fear, vain to 
ask you to read over these dispatches from England, and execute the 
warrants which 1 have thought necessary to prepaie in consequence. ” 


156 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ My signet you shall command with all my heart, madam,” said 
Earl Philip; ” but spare me the revision of what you are much more 
capable to decide upon. 1 am, you know, a most complete Roi 
faineant, and never once interfered with my Maire de palais in her 
proceedings.” 

The countess made signs to her little train-bearer, who immedi- 
ately went to seek for wax and a light, with which she»presenlly re- 
turned. 

In the meanwhile, the countess continued, addressing Peveril. 
” Philip does himself less than justice. When you were absent, 
Julian (for if you had been here I would have given you the credit 
of prompting your friend), he had a spirited controversy with the 
bishop, for an attempt to enforce spirituaf censures against a poor 
wretch, by confining her in the vault under the chapel.”* 

” Do not think better of me than I deserve,” said the earl to Pev- 
eril; ” my mother has omitted to tell you the culprit was pretty Pegsry 
of Ramsey, and her crime what in Cupid’s courts would have been 
called a peccadillo.” 

” Do not make /ourself worse than you are,” replied Peveril, who 
observed the countess’s cheek redden — “ you know you would have 
done as much for the oldest and poorest cripple in the island. Why, 
the vault is under the burial-ground of the chapel, and, for aught 1 
know,^ under the ocean itself, such a roaring do the waves make in 
its vicinity. 1 think no one could remain there long, and retain his 
reason.” 

” It is an infernal hole,” answered the earl, “ and 1 will have it 
built up one day — that is full certain. But hold — hold — for God’s 
sake, madam — what are you going to do? Look at the seal before 
you put it to the warrant— you will see it is a choice antique cameo: 
Cupid, riding on a flying fish— 1 had it for twenty zechins, from 
Signor Furabosco at Rome— a most curious matter for an antiquary, 
but which will add little faith to a Manx warrant.” 

“ How can you trifle thus, you simple boy?” said the countess, 
with vexation in her tone and look. ” Let me have your signet, or 
rather, take these warrants, and sign them yourself.” 

‘‘My signet— mjr signet. Oh! you mean that with the three 
monstrous legs, which 1 suppose was devised as the most preposter- 
ous device, to represent our most absurd Majesty of Man. The 
signet— 1 have not seen it since 1 gave it to Gibbon, my monkey, to 
play with. He did whine for it most piteously — I hope he has not 
gemmed the green breast of ocean with my symbol of sovereignty!” 

‘‘ Now, by Heaven,” said the countess, trembling, and coloring 
deeply with anger, ‘‘it was your father’s signet! the last pledge 
which he sent, with his love to me, and his blessing to thee, the 
night before they murdered him at Bolton!” 

‘‘ Mother, dearest mother,” said the earl, startled out of his 
apathy, and taking her hand, which he kissed, ” 1 did but jest— the 
signet is safe— Peveril knows that it is so. Go fetch it, Julian, for 
Heaven’s sake— here are my keys— it is in the left-hand drawer of 
my traveling cabinet. Nay, mother, forgive me — it was but a 
maumise plaisantene; only an ill-imagined jest, ungracious, and in 


* See Note L. Castle Bushin, 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


157 

bad taste, 1 allow — but only one of Philip’s follies. Look at me, 
dearest mother, and forgive me. ’ ’ 

The countess turned her eyes toward him, from which the tears 
were fast falling. 

“ Philip,” she said, “ you try me too unkindly, and too severely. 
If times are changed, as 1 have heard 5 mu allege — if the dignity of 
rank, and the high feelings of honor and duty, are now drowned in 
giddy jests and trifling pursuits, let me at least, who live secluded 
from all others, die without perceiving the change which has hap- 
pened, and, above all, without perceiving it in mine own son. Let 
me not learn the general prevalence of this levity, which laughs at 
every sense of dignity or duty, through your personal disrespect. 
Let me not think that when 1 die — ” 

” Speak nothing of it, mother,” said the earl, interi’upting her 
affectionately. “It is true, 1 cannot promise to be all my father 
and his fathers were; for we wear silk vests for their steel coats, and 
feathered beavers for their crested helmets. But believe me, though 
to be an absolute Palmerin of England is not in my nature, no son 
ever loved a mother more dearly, or would do more to oblige her. 
And that you may own this, 1 will forthwith not only seal the war- 
rants, to the great endangerment of my precious fingers, but also 
read the same from end to end, as well as the dispatches thereunto 
appertaining.” 

A mother is easily appeased, even when most offended; and it was 
with an expanding heart that the countess saw her son’s very hand- 
some features, while reading these papers, settle into an expression of 
deep seriousness, such as they seldom wore. It seemed to'her as if the 
family likeness to his gallant but unfortunate father increased, when 
the expression of their countenances became similar in gravity. The 
earl had no sooner perused the dispatches, which he did with great 
attention, than he rose and said, “ Julian, come with me.” 

I'he countess looked surprised. “1 was wont to share your 
father’s counsels, my son,” she said; “ but do not think that 1 wish 
to intrude myself upon yours. I am too well pleased to see you as- 
sume. the power and the duty of thinking for yourself, which is what 
1 have so long urged you to do. Nevertheless, my experience, who 
have been so long administrator of your authority in Man, might not, 
1 think, be superfluous to the matter in hand.” 

“ Hold me excused, dearest mother,” said the earl, gravely. 
“ The interference was none of my seeking; had you taken your 
own course, without consulting me, it had been well; but since 
1 have entered on the affair— and it appears sufficiently important— 
1 must transact it to the best of my own ability.” 

“ Go, then, my son,” said the countess, “ and may Heaven en- 
lighten thee with its counsel, since thou wilt have none of mine. 1 
trust that you. Master Peveril, will remind him of what is fit for his 
own honor; and that only a coward abandons his rights, and only a 
fool trusts his enemies.” 

The earl answered not, but, taking Peveril by the arm, led him up 
a winding stair to his own apartment, and from thence to a project- 
ing turret, where, amidst the loar of waves and sea-mews’ clang, he 
held with him the following conversation. 

“ Peveril, it is well 1 looked into these warrants. My mother 


158 


PEVEEIL OE THE PEAK. 


queens it at such a rate, as may cost me not only my crown, .which 
I care little for, but perhaps my head, which, though others may 
think little of, 1 would feel it an inconvenience to be deprived of.'’ 

“ What on earth is the matter?” said Peveril, with considerable 
anxiety. 

“ It seems,” said the Earl of Derby, “that Old England, who 
takes a frolicsome brain-fever once every two or three years, tor the 
benefit of her doctors, and the purification of the torpid lethargy- 
brought on by peace and prosperity, is now gone stark staring mad 
on the subject of a real or supposed Popish Plot. I read one pro- 
gramme on the subject, by a fellow called Oates, and thought it 
the most absurd foolery 1 ever perused. But that cunniirg fellow 
Shaftesbury, and some others amongst the '.great ones, have taken it 
up, and are driving on at such a rate as ruakes harness crack, and 
horses smoke for it. The king, who has sworn never to kiss the 
pillow his father went to sleep on, temporizes, and gives way to the 
current; the Duke of York, suspected and hated on account of his 
religion, is about to be driven to the continent; several principal 
Catholic nobles are in the Tower already; and the nation, like a bull 
at Tutbury-running, is persecuted with so many inflammatory ru- 
mors and pestilent pamphlets, that she has cocked her tail, flung up 
her heels, taken the bit betwixt her- teeth, and is as furiously un- 
manageable as in the year 1642.” 

“ All this you must have known already,” said Peveril; “ 1 won- 
der you told me not of news so important. ” 

“ It would have taken long to tell,” said the earl; ” moreover, 1 
desired to have you seZws; thirdly,! was about to speak when my 
mother entered; and, to. conclude, it was no business of mine. But 
these dispatches of my politic mother’s private correspondent put a 
new face on the whole matter; for it seems some of the informers — 
a trade which, having become a thriving one, is now pursued by 
many — have dared to glance at the countess herself as aii agent in 
this same plot — ay, and have found those that are willing enough 
to believe their report. ” 

‘‘ On mine honor,” said Peveril, ‘‘ you both take it with great 
coolness. I think the countess the more composed of the tw^O; for, 
except her movement hither she exhibited no mark of alarm, and, 
moreover, seemed no way more anxious to communicate the matter 
to your lordship than decency rendered necessary.” 

” M}’- good mother,” said the earl, ” loves power, though it has 
cost her dear. 1 wish 1 could truly say that my neglect of business 
is entirely assumed in order to leave it in her hands, but that better 
motive combines with natural indolence. But she seems to have 
feared 1 should not think exactly like her in this emergency, and 
she was right in supposing so. ” 

” How comes the emergency upon you?” said Julian; “ and what 
form does the danger assume?” 

“ Marry, thus it is,” said the earl; ” 1 need not bid you remember 
the affair of Colonel Christian. That man, besides his -widow, who 
is possessed of a large property — Dame Christian of Kirk-Truagh, 
whom you have often heard of, and perhaps seen— left a brother 
called Edward Christian, whom you never saw at all. Now this 
brother — but 1 dare say you know all about it.” 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


159 

“Not 1, on my honor,” said Peveril; “you know the countess 
seldom or never alludes to the subject.” 

“ Why,” replied Ihe earl, “ 1 believe in her heart she is something 
ashamed of that gallant act of royalty and supreme jurisdiction, the 
consequences of which maimed my estate so cruelly. Well, cousin, 
this same Edward Christian was one of the dempsters at the time, and,, 
naturally enough, was unwilling to concur in the sentence which 
adjudged his aiiie to be shot like a dog. My mother, who was then 
in high force, and not to be controlled by any one, would have 
served the dempster with the same sauce with which she dressed his 
brother, had he not been wise enough to fly from the island. Since 
that time, the thing has slept on all hanckg; and though we knew 
that Dempster Christian made occasionally secret visits to his friends 
in the island, along with two or three other Puritans of the same 
stamp, and particularly a prick-eared rogue, called Bridgenorth, 
brother-in-law to the deceased, yet my mother, thank Heaven, has 
hitherto had the sense to connive at them, though, for some reason 
or other, she holds this Bridgenorth in especial disfavor.” 

“ And why,” said Peveril, forcing himself to speak, in order to 
conceal the very unpleasant surprise which he felt, “ why does the 
countess now depart from so prudent a line of conduct?” 

“ You must know the case is now difierent. The rogues are not 
satisfied with toleration — they would have supremacy. They have 
found friends in the present heat of the popular mind. My mother’s 
name, and especially that of her confessor, Aldrick the Jesuit, have 
been mentioned in this beautiful maze of a plot, which, if any such 
at all exists, she knows as little of as you or 1. However, she is a 
Catholic, and that is enough; and 1 have little doubt, that if the fel- 
lows could seize on our scrap of a kingdom here, and cut all our 
throats, they would have the thanks of the present House of Com- 
mons, as willingly as old Christian had those of the Rump, for a 
similar service.” 

“ From whence did you receive all this information?” said Peve- 
ril, again speaking, though by the same effort which a man makes 
who talks in his sleep. 

“ Aldrick has seen the Duke of York in secret, and his royal 
highness, who wept while he confessed his want of power to protect 
his friends— -and it is no trifle will wring tears from him — told him 
to send us information that we should look to' our safety, for that 
Dempster Christian and Bridgenorth were in the island, with secret 
and severe orders; that they had formed a considerable party there, 
and were likely to be owned and protected in anything they might 
undertake against us. The people of Ramsey and Castletown are 
unluckily discontented about some new regulation of the imposts; 
and to tell you the truth, though I thought yesterday’s sudden re- 
move a whim of my mother’s, 1 am almost satisfied they would have 
blockaded us in Rushin Castle, where we could not have held out 
for lack of provisions. Here we are better supplied, and, as we are 
on our guard, it is likely the intended rising will not take place.” 

“ And what is to be done in this emergency?” said Peveril. 

“That is tiie very question, my gentle coz,” answered the earl. 
“ My mother sees but one way of going to work, and that is by royal 
authority. Here are the warrants she had prepared, to search for. 


160 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


take, and apprehend the bodies of Edward Christian and Robert — 
no, Ralph Bridgenorth, and bring them to instant trial. No doubt, 
she would soon have had them in the castle court, with a dozen of 
the old matchlocks leveled against tnem — that is ber way of solving 
all sudden difficulties.” 

” But in which, 1 trust, you du nof acquiesce, my lord,” answered 
Peveril, whose thoughts instantly reverted to Alice, if they could 
ever be said to be absent from her. 

” Truly, I acquiesce in no such matter,” said the earl. ” William 
Christian’s death cost me a fair half of my inheritance. 1 have no 
fancy to fall under the displeasure of my royal brother. King 
Charles, for a new escapade of the same kind. But, how to pacify 
my mother, 1 know not. 1 wish the insurrection would take place, 
and then, as we are better prqvided than they can be, we might 
knock the knaves on the head; and yet, since they began the fray, 
we should Eeep the law on our side. 

“Were it not better,” said Peveril, “if by any means these men 
could be induced to quit the island?” 

” Surely,” replied the earl; ‘‘ but that will be no easy matter — 
they are stubborn on principle, and empty threats will not move 
them. This storm-blast in London is wind in their sails, and they 
will run their length, you may depend on it. 1 have sent orders, 
however, to clap up the Manxmen upon whose assistance they de- 
pended, and if 1 can find the two worthies themselves, here are 
sloops enough in the harbor — 1 will take the freedom to send them 
on a pretty distant voyage, and 1 hope matters with be settled before 
they return to give an account of it.” 

At this moment a soldier belonging to the garrison approached the 
two young men, with many bows and tokens of respect. ‘‘ How 
now, friend?” said the earl to him. ” Leave off thy courtesies, and 
fell thy business.” 

The man, who was a native islander, answered in Manx, that he 
had a letter for his honor. Master Julian Peveril. Julian snatched 
the billet hastily, and asked whence it came. 

” It was delivered to him by a young woman,” the soldier replied, 
” who had given hiin a piece of money to deliver it into Master Pev- 
eril’s own hand.” 

” Thou art a lucky fellow, Julian,” said the earl. “ With that 
grave brow of thine, and thy character for sobriety and early wis- 
dom, you set the girls a-wooing without waiting till they are asked; 
whilst 1, their drudge and vassal, waste both language and leisure, 
without getting a kind word or look, far less a billet-doux.” 

This the young earl said with a smile of conscious triumph, as in 
fact he Valued himself not a little upon the interest which he sup- 
posed himself to possess with the fair sex. 

Meanwhile the letter impressed on Peveril a different train of 
thoughts from what his companion apprehended. It was in Alice’s 
hand, and contained these few words: — 

” 1 fear what 1 am going to do is wrong: but I must see you. 
Meet me at noon at Goddard Cro van’s Stone, with as much secrecy 
as you may.” 

The letter was signed only with the initials A. B., but Julian had 
no difficulty in recognizing the handwriting, which he had often 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


161 

seen, and which was remarkably beautiful. He stood suspended, 
for be saw the difficulty and impropriety of withdrawing himself 
from the countess and his friend at this moment of impending dan- 
ger; and yet, to neglect this invitation was not to be thought of. 
He paused in the utmost perplexity. 

“ Shall 1 read your riddle?” said the earl. “ Go where love calls 
you — 1 will make an excuse to my mother — only, most grave ancho- 
rite, be hereafter more indulgent to the failings of others than you 
have been hitherto, and blaspheme not the power of the little deity.” 

” Kay, but, Cousin Derby — ” said Peveril, and stopped short, for 
he really knew not what to say. Secured himself by a virtuous pas- 
sion from the contagious influence of the time, he had seen with re- 
gret his noble kinsman mingle more in its irregularities than he 
approved of, and had sometimes played the part of a monitor. Cir- 
cumstances seemed at present to give the earl a right of retaliation. 
He kept his eye fixed on his friend, as if he waited till he should 
complete his sentence, and at length exclaimed, “What! cousin, 
quite d-la-mort! Oh, most judicious Julian! Oh, most precise 
Peveril! have you bestowed so much wisdom on me that you have 
none left for yourself? Come, be frank — tell me name and place — 
or say but the color of the eyes of the most emphatic she— or do but 
let me have the pleasure to hear thee say,' ‘ 1 love!’— confess one 
toucti of human frailty — conjugate the verb arm, and 1 will be a 
gentle schoolmaster, and you shall have, as father Richards used to 
say, when we were under his ferule, ‘ licentia exeundV 

“ Enjoy your pleasant humor at my expense, my lord,” said Pev- 
eril; “ 1 fairly will confess thus much, that 1 would fain, if it con- 
sisted with my honor and your safety, have two hours at my own 
disposal ; the more especially as the manner in which 1 shall employ 
them may much concern the safety of the island.” 

“ Very likely, 1 dare say,” answered the earl, still laughing. “Ho 
doubt you are summoned out by some Lady Politic Wouldbe of the 
isle, to talk over some of the breast-laws: but never mind — go, and 
go speedily, that you may return as quick as possible. I expect no 
immediate explosion of this grand conspiracy. When the rogues 
see us on our guard, they will be cautious how they break out. 
Only, once more, make haste.” 

Peveril thought this last advice was not to be neglected; and, glad 
to extricate himself from the raillery of his cousin, walked down 
toward the gate of the castle, meaning to cross over to the village, 
and there take horse at the earl’s stables, for the place of rendez- 

vous. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Acasto. Can she not speak? 

Osicald. If speech be only in accented sounds, 

Framed by the tongue and lips, the maiden’s dumb; 

But if by quick and apprehensive look, 

By motion, sign, and glance, to give each meaning, 

Express as clothed in language, be term’d speech. 

She hath that wondrous faculty; for her eyes. 

Like the bright stars of heaven, can hold discourse. 

Though it be mute and soundless. 

Old Play. 

At the head of the first flight of steps which descended toward the 
difficult and well-defended entrance of the Castle of Holm-Peel, 
6 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


162 

Peveril was met and stopped hf the countess’s train-bearer. This- 
little creature— for she was of the least and slightest size of woman- 
kind — was exquisitely well formed in all -her limbs, which the dress 
she usually wore (a green silk tunic, of a peculiar form) set off to 
the best advantage. Her face was darker than the usual hue of 
Europeans; and the profusion of long and silken hair, which, when 
she undid the braids in which she commonly wore it, fell down 
almost to her ankles, was also rathei a foreign attribute. Her coun- 
tenance resembled a most beautiful miniature; and there was a 
quickness, decision, and Are, in Fenella’s looks, and especially in 
her eyes, which was probably rendered yet more alert and acute, 
because, through the imperfection of her other organs, it was only 
by sight that she could obtain information of what passed around 
her. 

The pretty mute was -mistress of many little accomplishments, 
which the countess had caused to be taught to her in compassion of 
her forlorn situation, and which she learned with the most surpris- 
ing quickness. Thus, for example, she was exquisite in the use of 
the needle, and so ready and ingenious a draughtswoman, that, like 
the ancient Mexicans, she sometimes made a hasty sketch with her 
pencil the means of conveying her ideas, either by direct or emble- 
matical representation. Above all, in the art of ornamental writing, 
much studied at that period, Fenella was so great a proficient, as to 
rival the fame of Messrs. Snow, Shelley, and other nc asters of the 
pen, whose copy-books, preserved in the libiaries of the curious, still 
show the artists smiling on the frontispiece in all the honors of flow- 
ing gowns and full-bottomed wigs, to the eternal glory of cal- 
ligraphy. 

The little maiden had, besides these accomplishments, much ready 
wit and acuteness of intellect. With Lady Derby, and the two 
young gentlemen, she was a great favorite, and used much freedom 
in conversing with them, by means of a system of signs which had 
been gradually established amongst them, and which served all 
ordinary purposes of communication. 

But, though happy in the indulgence and favor of her mistress, 
from whom indeed she was seldom separate, Fenella was by no 
means a favorite with the rest of the household. In fact, it seemed 
that her temper, exasperated perhaps by a sense of her misfortune, 
Was by no means equal to her abilities. She wls very haughty in 
her demeanor, even toward the upper domestics, who in that estab- 
lishment were of a much higher rank and better birth than in the 
families of the nobility in general. These often complained, not 
only of her pride and reserve, but of her high and irascible temper 
and vindictive disposition. Her passionate propensity had been in- 
deed idly encouraged by the young men, and particularly by the 
earl, who sometimes amused himself with teasing her, that he might 
enjoy the various singular motions and murmurs by which she ex- 
pressed her resentment. Toward him, these were ot course only 
petulant and whimsical indications of a pettish anger. But when 
she was angry with others of inferior degree— before whom she did 
hot control herself — the expression of her passion, unable to display 
itself in language, had something even frightful, so singular were 
the tones, contortions, and gestures, to which she had recourse. The 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


163 

lower domestics, to whom she was liberal almost beyond her appar- 
ent means, observed her with much deference and respect, but much 
more from fear than from any real attachment ; for the caprices of 
her temper displayed themselves even in her gifts; and those who 
most frequently shared her bounty, seemed by no means assured of 
the benevolence of the motives which dictated her liberality. 

All these peculiarities led to a conclusion consonant with Manx 
superstition. Devout believers in all the legends of fairies so dear 
to the Celtic tribes, the Manx people held it tor certainty that tha 
elves were in the habit of carrying off mortal children before bap- 
tism, and leaving in the cradle of the new-born babe one of their own 
brood, which was almost always imperfect in some one or other of the 
organs proper to humanity. Such a being they conceived Fenella to 
be; and the smallness of her size, ‘her dark complexion, her long 
locks of silken hair, the singularity of her manners and tones, as 
well as the caprices of her temper, were to their thinking all attri- 
butes of the irritable, fickle, and dangerous race from which they 
supposed her to be sprung. And it seemed, that although no jest 
appeared to offend her more than when Lord Derby called her in 
sport the Elfin Queen, or otherwise alluded to her supposed connec- 
tion with “ the pigmy folk,” yet still her perpetually affecting to 
wear the color of green, proper to the fairies, as well as some other 
peculiarities, seemed voluntarily assumed by her, in order to coun- 
tenance the superstition, perhaps because it gave her more authority 
among the lower orders. 

Many were the tales circulated respecting the countess’s Elf, as 
Fenella was currently called in the island; and the malcontents of 
the stricter persuasion were convinced that no one but a Papist and 
a malignant would have kept near her person a creature of such 
doubtful origin. They conceived that Fenella’s deafness and dumb- 
ness were only toward those of this world, and that she had been 
heard talking, and singing, and laughing most elvishly, with the in- 
visibles of her own race. They alleged, also, that she had a 
Double, a sort of apparition resembling her, which slept in the 
countess’s anteroom, or bore her train, or wrought in her cabinet, 
while the real Fenella joined the song of the mermaids on the moon- 
light sands, or the dance of the fairies in the haunted valley of 
Glenmoy, or on the heights of Snawfell and Barool. The sentinels, 
too, would have sworn they had seen the little maiden trip past them 
in their solitary night walks, without their having it in their power 
to challenge her, any more than if they had been as mute as herself. 
To all this mass of absurdities the better informed paid no more 
attention than to the usual idle exaggerations of the vulgar, which 
so frequently connect that which is unusual with what is supernatu- 
ral.* 

Such, in form and habits, was ihe little female who, holding in 
her hand a small old-fashioned ebony rod, which might have passed 
for a divining-wand, confronted Julian on the top of the flight of 
steps which led down the rock from the castle-court. We ought to 
observe, that as Julian’s manner to the unfortunate girl had been 
always gentle, and free from those teasing jests in which his gay 


* See Note M. Munx Snperstitiom. 


164 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

friend indulged, with less regard to the peculiarity of her situatioir 
and feelings ; so Fenella, ou her part, had usually shown much greater 
deference to him than to any of the household, her mistress, the 
countess, always excepted. 

On the present occasion, planting herself in the very midst of the 
narrow descent, so as to make it impossible for Peveril to pass by 
her, she proceeded 1o put him to the question by a series of gestures,, 
which we will endeavor to describe. She commenced by extending 
her hand slightly, accompanied with the sharp inquisitive look 
which served her as a note of interrogation. This was meant as an 
inquiry whether he was going to a distance. Julian, in reply, ex- 
tended his arm more than half, to intimate that the distance was 
considerable. Fenella looked grave, shook her head, and f)ointed 
to the countess’s window, which was visible from the spot where 
they stood. Peveril smiled, and nodded, to intimate there was no’ 
danger in quitting her mistress for a short space. The little maiden 
next touched an eagle’s feather which she wore in her hair, a sign 
which she usually employed to designate the earl, and then looked 
inquisitively at Julian once more, as if to say, “ Goes he with you?” 
Peveril shook his head, and, somewhat wearied by these interroga- 
tories, smiled and made an effort to pass. Fenella frowned, struck 
tiie end of her ebony rod perpendicularly on the ground, and again 
shook her head, as it opposing his departure. But finding that 
Julian persevered in his purpose, she suddenly assumed another and 
a milder mood, held him by the skirt of his cloak with one hand, 
and raised the other in an imploring attitude, whilst every feature 
of her lively countenance was composed into the like expression of 
supplication; and the fire of the large dark eyes, wliich seemed in 
general so keen and piercing as almost to over-animate the little 
sphere to which they belonged, seemed quenched, for the moment, 
in the large drops which hung on her long eyelashes, but without 
falling. 

Julian Peveril was far from being void of sympathy toward the 
poor girl, whose motives in opposing his departure appeared to be 
her affectionate apprehension for her mistress’s safety. He endeav- 
ored to reassure her by smiles, and, at the same time, by such signs 
as he could devise, to intimate that there was no danger, and that 
he would return presently; and having succeeded in extricating his 
cloak from her grasp, and in passing her on the stair, he began to 
descend the steps as speedily as he could, in order to avoid further 
importunity. 

But with activity much greater than his, the dumb maiden has- 
tened to intercept him, and succeeded by throwing herself, at the 
imminent risk of life and limb, a second time into the pass which he 
was descending, so as to interrupt his purpose. In order to achieve 
this, she was obliged to let herself drop, a considerable height from 
the wall of a small flanking battery, where two patereroes were 
placed to scour the pass, in case any enemy could have mounted so 
high. Julian had scarce time to shudder at her purpose, as he be- 
held her about to spring from the parapet, ere, like a thing of gos- 
samer, she stood light and uninjured on the rocky platform below. 
He endeavored, by the gravity of his look and gesture, to make her 
understand how much he blamed her rashness; but the reproof. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


165 

though obviously quite intelligible, was entirely thrown away. A 
hasty wave of her hand intimated how she contemned the danger 
and the remonstrance; while, at the same time, she instantly re- 
sumed, with more eagerness than before, the earnest and impressive 
gestures by which slie endeavored lo detain him in the fortress. 

Julian was somewhat staggered by her pertinacity. “Is it possi- 
ble,” he thought, “ that any danger can approach the countess, of 
which this poor maiden has, by the extreme acuteness of her obser- 
vation, obtained knowledge which has escaped others?” 

^ He signed to Fenella hastily to give him the tablets and the pen- 
cil which she usually carried with her, and wrote on them the ques- 
tion, “ Is there danger near to your mistress, that you thus stop 
me?” 

“ There is danger around the countess,” was (he answer instantly 
written down; “ but there is much more in your own purpose.” 

“How? — what? — what know you of my purpose?” said Julian, 
forgetting, in his surprise, that the party he addressed had neither 
ear to comprehend, nor voice to reply to, uttered language. She had 
regained her book in the meantime, and sketched, with a rapid pen- 
cil, on one of the leaves, a scene which she showed to Julian. To 
his infinite surprise he recognized Gloddard Crovan’s tone, a remark- 
able monument, of which she had given the outline with sufficient 
accuracy; together with a male and female figure, which, though 
only indicated by a few slight touches of the pencil, bore yet, he 
thought, some resemblance to himself and Alice IBridgenorth. 

When he had gazed on the sketch foi an instant with surprise, Fe- 
nella took the book from his hand, laid her finger upon the drawing, 
and slowly and sternly shook her head, with a frown which seemed to 
prohibit the meeting which was there represented. Julian, how- 
ever, thougii disconcerted, was in no shape disposed to submit to 
the authority of his monitress. By whatever means she, who so sel- 
dom stirred from the countess’s apartment, had become acquainted 
with a secret which he thought entirely his own, he esteemed it the 
more necessary to keep the appointed rendezvous, that he might 
learn "fiom Alice, if possible, how the secret had transpired. He 
had also formed the Intention of seeking out Bridgenorth; enter- 
taining an idea that a person, so reasonable and calm as he had 
shown himself in their late conference, might be persuaded, when 
he understood that the countess was aware of his intrigues, to put 
an end to her danger and his own, by withdrawing from the island. 
And could he succeed in this point, he should at once, he thought, 
render material benefit to the father of his beloved Alice — remove 
the earl from his state of anxiety — save the countess from a second 
time putting her feudal jurisdiction in opposition to that of the 
Crown of England — and secure quiet possession of the island to her 
and her family. 

With this scheme of mediation in his mind, Peveril determined to 
rid himself of the opposition of Fenella to his departure, with less 
ceremony than he had hitherto observed toward her; and suddenly 
lifting up the damsel in his arms before she was aware of his pur- 
pose, lie turned about, set her down on the steps above him, and be- 
gan to descend the pass himself as speedily as possible. It was then 
that the dumb maiden gave full course to the vehemence of her dio- 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


166 

position; and clapping her hands repeatedly, expressed her displeas- 
ure in a sound, or rather a shriek, so extremely dissonant, that it re- 
sembled more the cry of a wild creature, than anything wmich could 
have been uttered by female organs. Peveiil was so astounded at 
the scream as it rung through the living rocks, that he could not 
help stopping and looking back in alarm, to satisfy himself that she 
had not sastained some injury. He saw her, however, perfectly 
sate, though her face seemed inflamed and distorted with passion. 
She stamped at him with her foot, shook her clinched hand, and 
turning her back upon him, without further adieu, ran up the rude 
steps as lightly as a kid could have tripped up that rugged ascent, 
and paused tor a moment at the summit of the first flight. 

Julian could feel nothing but wonder and compassion for the 
impotent passion of a being so unfortunately circumstanced, cut off, 
as it were, from the rest of mankind, and incapable of receiving in 
childhood that moral discipline which teaches us mastery of our way- 
ward passions, ere yet they have attained their iheridian strength 
5ind violence. He waved his hand to her, in token of amicable 
farewell; but she only replied by once more menacing him with her 
little hand clinched; and then ascending the rocky staircase with al- 
most preternatural speed, was soon out of sight. 

Julian, on his part, gave no further consideration to her conduct 
or its motives, but hastening to the village on the mainland, wdiere 
th^ stables of the castle were situated, he again took his paJfrey from 
the stall, and was soon mounted and on his way to the appointed 
place of rendezvous, much marveling, as he ambled forward with 
speed far greater than was promised by the diminutive size of the 
animal he was mounted on, what could have happened to produce 
so great a change in Alice’s conduct toward him, that in place of 
enjoining his absence as usual, or recommending his departure from 
the island, she should now voluntarily invite him to a meeting. 
tJflder impression of the various doubis which succeeded each other 
in his imagination, he sometimes pressed Fairy’s sides with his legs; 
sometimes laid his holly rod lightly on her neck; sometimes incited 
her by his voice, for the mettled animal needed neither whip nor 
spur, and achieved the distance betwixt the Castle of Holm-Peel 
ttnd the stone at Goddard Crovan, at the rate of twelve miles within 
the, hour. 

The monumental stone, designed to commemorate some feat of an 
ancient King of Man, which had been long forgotten, was erected 
on the side of a narrow lonely valley, or rather glen, secluded from 
observation by the steepness of its banks, upon a projection of which 
stood the tall, shapeless, solitary rock, frowning, like a shrouded 
giant, over the brawling of the small rivulet which watered the 
ravine. 

CHAPTER XVil. 

This a love-meeting? See the maiden mourns, 

I And the sad suitor bends his looks on earth. 

Thei-e’s more hath pass’d between them than belongs 

To Love’s sweet sorrows. 

Old Play. 

. jAs he approached the monument of Goddard Crovan, Julian cast 
many an anxious glance to see whether any object visible beside the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


ur 

huge gray stone should apprize him whether he was anticipated, at; 
the appointed place of rendezvous, by her who had named it. Nor 
was it long before the flutter of a mantle, which the bre^ ze slightly- 
waved, and the motion necessary to replace it upon the wearer’s 
shoulders, made him aware that Alice had already reached their 
place of meeting. One instant set the palfrey at liberty, with slack- 
ened girths and loosened reins, to pick its own way through the dell 
at will; another placed Julian Peveril by the side of Alice Bridge- 
north. 

That Alice should extend her hand to her lover, as with the ardor 
of a young greyhound he bounded over the obstacles of the rugged 
path, was as natural as that Julian, seizing on the hand so kindly 
stretched out, should devour it with kisses, and, for a moment or 
two, without reprehension; while the other hand, which should have 
aided in the liberation of its fellow, served to hide the blushes of the 
fair owner. But Alice, young as she was, and attached to Julian 
by such long habits of kindly intimacy, still knew well how to sub- 
due the tendency of her own treacherous affections. 

“ This is not right,” she said, extricating her hand from Julian's 
grasp, ‘‘ this is not right, Julian. If 1 have been too rash in admit- 
ting such a meeting as the present, it is not you that should make 
me sensible of my folly.” 

Julian Peveril’s mind had been early illuminated with that touch 
of romantic fire which deprives passion of selfishness, and confers 
on it the high and refined tone of generous and disinterested devo- 
tion. He let go the hand of Alice with as much respect as he could 
have paid to that of a princess; and when she seated herself upon a 
rocky fragment, over which nature had stretched a cushion of moss 
and lichen, interspersed with wild flowers, backed with a bush of 
copsewood, he took his place beside her, indeed, but at such dis- 
tance as to intimate the duty of an attendant, who was there only 
to hear and to obey. Alice Bridgenorlh became more assured as she 
observed the power which she possessed over her lover; and the self- 
command whichPeveril exhibited, which other damsels in her situ- 
ation might have judged inconsistent with intensity of passion, she 
appreciated more justly, as a proof of his respectful and disinterested 
sincerity. She recovered, in addressing him, the tone of confidence 
which rather belonged to the scenes of their earl}^ acquaintance, than 
to those which had passed betwixt them since Peveril had disclosed 
his affection, and thereby had brought restraint upon their inter- 
course. 

“Julian,” she said, “your visit of yesterday— your most ill- 
timed visit, has distressed me much. It has misled my father — it 
has endangered you. At all risks, 1 resolved that you should know 
this, and blame me not if 1 have taken a bold and imprudent step in 
desiring this solitary interview, since you are aware how little poor 
Deborah is to be trusted.” 

“ Can you fear misconstruction from me, Alice?” replied Peveril,. 
warmly; “ from me, whom you have thus highly favored— thus 
deeply obliged?” 

“ Cease your protestations, Julian,” answered the maiden, '‘ they 
do but make me the more sensible that I have acted over-bold^y* 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


168 

But 1 did for the best. 1 could not see you whom 1 have known so 
long — you,, who say you regard me with partiality— ” 

“ Bay that 1 regard you with partiality I’' interrupted Peveril in 
his turn. “ Ah, Alice, what a cold and doubtful phrase you have 
used to express the most devoted, the most sincere aftection!" 

'' Well, then,” said Alice, sadly, “we will not quarrel about 
words; but do not again interrupt me. I could not, 1 say, see you, 
who, 1 believe, regard me with sincere though vain and fruitless at- 
tachment, rush blindfold into a snare, deceived and seduced by 
those very feelings toward me.” 

“ 1 understand you not, Alice,” said Peveril; “ nor can 1 see any 
danger to which 1 am at present exposed. The sentiments which 
your fathei has expressed toward me, are ot a nature irreconcilable 
with hostile purposes. It he is not offended with the bold wishes I 
may have formed — and his whole behavior shows the contrary — I 
know not a man on earth from whom 1 have less cause to apprehend 
any danger or ill-will.” 

“ My father,” said Alice, “ means well by his country, and well 
by you; yet 1 sometimes fear he may rather injure than serve his 
good cause; and still more do 1 dread, that in attempting to engage 
you as an auxiliary, he may forget those ties which ought to bind 
you, and 1 am sure which will bind you, to a different line ot con- 
duct from his own.” 

“You lead me into still deeper darkness, Alice,” answered Pev- 
eril. “That your father’s especial line of politics differs widely 
from mine, 1 know well; but how many instances have occurred, 
even during ihe bloody scenes of civil warfare, of good and worthy 
men laying the prejudice of party affections aside, and regarding each 
other with respect, and even with friendly attachment, without be- 
ing false to principle on either side!” 

“ It may be so,” said Alice; “ but such is not the league which 
my father desires to form with you, and that to which he hopes your 
misplaced partiality toward his daughter may afford a motive for 
your forming with him.” 

“And what is it,” said Peveril, “which 1 would refuse, with 
such a prospect before me?” 

“Treachery and dishonor!” replied Alice; “whatever would 
render you unworthy of the poor boon at which you aim — ay, were 
it more worthless than 1 confess it to be.” 

“ Would your father,” said Peveril, as he unwillingly received the 
impression which Alice deigned to convey — “ would he, whose 
views ot duty are so strict and severe — would he wish to involve me 
in aught to which such harsh epithets as treachery and dishonor can 
be applied with the slightest shadow of truth?” 

“ Do not mistake me, Julian,” replied the maiden; “ my father is 
incapable of requesting aught ot you that is not to his thinking just 
and honorable; nay, he conceives that he only claims from you a 
debt, which is due as a creature to the Creator, and as a man to your 
fellow-men.” 

“So guarded, where can be the danger of our intercourse?” re- 
plied Julian. “ It he resolved to require, and 1 determined to ac- 
cede to, nothing save what flows from conviction, what have 1 to 
fear, Alice? And how is my intercourse with your father danger- 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


169 


ous? Believe not so: his speech has already made impression on me 
in some parliculais, and he listened with candor and patience to the 
objections which 1 made occasionally. You do Master Bridgenorth 
less than justice in confounding him with the unreasonable bigots 
in policy and religion, who can listen to no argument but what fa- 
vors their own prepossessions.” 

“Julian,” replied Alice; “it is you who misjudge my father's 
powers, and his purpose with respect to you, and who overrate your 
own powers of resistance. 1 am but a girl, but 1 have been taught 
by circumstances to think foi myself, and to consider the character 
of those around me. l^y father’s views in ecclesiastical and civil pol- 
icy are as dear to him as the life which he cherishes only to advance 
them. They have been, with little alteration, his companions 
through life. They brought him at one period into prosperity, and 
when they suited not the times, he suftered for having held them. 
They have become not only a part, but the very dearest part, of his 
existence. If he shows them not to you at first, in the flexible 
strength which they have acquired over his mind, do not believe 
that they are the less powerful. He who desires to make converts, 
must begin by degrees. But that he should sacrifice to an inex- 
perienced young man, whose ruling motive he will term a childish 
passion, any part of those treasured principles which he has main- 
tained through good repute and bad repute — Oh, do not dream of 
such an impossibility ! If you meet at all, you must be the wax, 
he the seal— you must receive, he must bestow, an absolute im- 
pression.” 

“ That,” said Peveril, “ were unreasonable. I will frankly avow 
to you, Alice, that 1 am not a sworn bigot to the oxnnions enter- 
tained by my father, much as I respect his person. 1 could wish 
that our cavaliers, or whatsoever they are pleased to call themselves, 
would have some more charity toward those who differ from them in 
Church and State. But to hope that 1 would surrender the princi- 
ples in which 1 have lived, were to suppose me capable of deserting 
my benefactress, and breaking the hearts of my parents.” 

“ Even so 1 judged of you,” answered Alice; “ and therefore 1 
asked this interview, to conjure that you will break off all inter- 
course with our family — return to your parents— or, what will be 
much safer, visit the continent once more, and abide till God sends 
better days to England, for these are black with many a storm.” 

“ And can you bid me go, Alice?” said the young man, taking 
her unresisting handv “ can you bid me go, and yet own an interest 
in my fate? Can you bid me, for fear of dangers, which, as a man, 
as a gentleman, and a loyal one, 1 am bound to show my face to, 
meanly abandon my parents, my friends, my country— suffer the 
existence of evils which 1 might aid to prevent— forego the prospect 
of doing such little good as might be in my power— fall from an 
active and honorable station, into the condition of a fugitive and 
time-server. Can you bid me do all this, Alice? Can you bid me 
do all this, and, in the same breath, bid farewell forever to you and 
happiness? It is impossible. 1 cannot surrender at once my love 
and my honor.” 

“ There is no remedy,” said Alice, but she could not suppress a 
sigh while she said so — “there is no remedy — none whatever. 


PEVEllIL OF THE PEAK. 


170 

Wiiat we might have been to each other, placed in more favorable 
vcircnmstances, it avails not to think of now ; and, circumstanced as 
we are, with open war about to break out betwixt our parents and 
friends, we can be but well-wishers — cold and distant well-wishers, 
who must part on this spot, and at this hour, never to meet again.” 

” No, b}’- Heaven!” saidPeveril, animated at the same time by his 
own feelings, and by the sight of the emotions which his companion 
in vain endeavored to suppress. “No, by Heaven!” he exclaimed, 

we part not— Alice, we part not. If 1 am to leave my native land, 
you shall be my companion in my exile. What hav^e you to lose?-* 
Whom have you to abandon? Your father? The good old cause, 
^s it is termed, is dearer to him than a thousand daughters; and set- 
ting him aside, what tie is there between you and this barren isle — 
between my Alice and any spot of the British dominions, where her 
Julian does not sit by her?” 

” Oh, Julian,” answered the maiden, “ why make my duty more 
painful by visionary projects, which you ought not to name, or 1 to 
listen to? Your parents— my father — it cannot be!” 

”Fear not for my parents, Alice,” replied Julian, and pressing 
close to his companion’s side, he ventured to throw his arm around 
tier; ” they love me, and they will soon learn to love, in Alice, the 
only being on earth who could have rendered their son happy. And 
for your own father, when State and Church intrigues allow him to 
bestow a thought upon you, will he not thiuk that your happiness, 
your security, is better cared for when you are my wife, than were 
you to continue under the mercenary charge of yonder foolish 
woman? What could his pride desire better for you than the estab- 
lishment which will one day be mine? Come then, Alice, and since 
you condemn me to banishment— since you deny me a share in those 
fitimng achievements which are about to agitate England— come! do 
you — for you only can — do you reconcile me to exile and inaction, 
and give happiness to one, who, for your sake, is willing to resign 
honor.” 

“ It cannot— it cannot be,” said Alice, faltering as she uttered her 
negative. ‘‘And yet,” she said, ‘‘how many in my place — left 
alone and unprotected, as 1 am — But Imust not — I iiiust not — for 
your sake, Julian, 1 must not.” 

” Say not for my sake you must not, Alice,” said Peveril, eager- 
ly; ” this is adding insult to cruelty. If you will do aught for my 
sake, you will say yes; or you will suffer this dear head to drop on 
my shoulder — the slightest sign— the moving of an eyelid, shall sig- 
nify consent. All shall be prepared within an hour; within another 
the priest shall unite us; and within a third, we leave the isle be- 
hind us, and seek our fortunes on the continent.” But while he 
spoke, in joyful anticipation of the consent which he implored, Al- 
ice found means to collect together her resolution, which, staggered 
by the eagerness of her lover, the impulse of her own affections, and 
the singularity of her situation — seeming, in her case, to justify what 
would have been most bJamable in another — had more than halt 
abandoned her. 

The result of a moment’s deliberation was fatal to Julian’s propos- 
al. She extricated herself from the arm which had pressed her to 
his side— arose, and repelling his attempts to approach or detain W, 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


171 

said, with a simplicity not unmingled with dignity, “ Julian, I al- 
ways knew 1 risked much in inviting j'ou to this meeting; but 1 did 
not guess that 1 could have been so cruel both to you and to myselt, 
as to sufter you to discover what you have to-day seen too plainly — 
that 1 love you better than you love me. But since you do know it, 
1 will show you that Alice’s love is disinterested She will not bring 
an ignoble name into your ancient house. If hereafter, in your line, 
there should arise some who may think the claims of the hierarchy 
^ too exorbitant, the powers of the crown too extensive, men shall not 
say these ideas were derived from Alice Bridegnorth, their whig- 
granddame.” 

“ Can you speak thus, Alice?” said her lover. “ Can you use 
such expressions? and are you not sensible that they show plainly it 
is your own pride, not regard for me, that makes you resist the hap- 
piness of both?” 

“ Not so, Julian; not so,” answered Alice, with tears in her el^es; 
‘‘it is the command of duty to us both — of duty, which we caniiot 
transgress, without risking our happiness here and hereafter. Think 
what 1, the cause of all, should feel, when your lather frowns, your 
mother weeps, your noble friends stand aloof, and you, even you 
yourself, shall have made the painful discovery, that you have in- 
curred the contempt and resentment of all to satisfy a boyish pas- 
sion; and that the poor beauty, once sufficient to mislead you, is 
gradually declining under the influence of grief and vexation. This 
1 will not risk. 1 see distinctly it is best we should heie break off 
and part; and 1 thank God, who gives me light enough to perceive, 
and strength enough to withstand, your folly as w^ell as my own. 
Farewell, then, Julian; but first take the solemn advice which 1 
called you hither to impart to you : Shun my father— you cannot 
walk in his paths, and be true to gratitude and honor. "What he 
doth from pure and honorable motives, you cannot aid him in, ex- 
cept upon the suggestion of a silly and interested passion, at vari- 
ance with all the enjcagements you have formed at coming in to life.” 

” Once more, Alice,” answered Julian, ‘‘ 1 understand you not. 
If a course of action is good, it needs no vindication from the actor’s 
motives — if bad, it can derive none.” 

“ You cannot blind me with your sophistry, Julian,” replied Al- 
ice Bridgenorth, ” any more than you can overpower me with your 
passion. Had the patriarch destined his son to death upon any less 
ground than faith and humble obedience to a divine commandment, 
he had meditated a murder and not a sacrifice. In our late bloody 
and lamentable wars how many drew swords on either side, from 
the purest and most honorable motives? How many from the culpa- 
ble suggestions of ambition, self-seeking, and love of plunder? Yet 
while they marched in the same ranks, and spurred their horses at 
the same trumpet-sound, the memory of the former is dear to us as 
patriots or loyalists— that of those who acted on mean or unworthy 
promptings, is either execrated or forgotten, (fnee more, 1 warn you, 
avoid my father— leave this island, which will be soon devastated 
by strange incidents — while you slay, oe on your guard — distrust 
everything— be jealous of every one, even of those to whom it may 
seem almost impossible, from circumstances, to attach a shadow of 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


172 

suspicion — trust not the very stones of the most secret apartment in 
Holm-Peel, for that which hath wings shall carry the matter.” 

Here Alice broke off suddenly, and with a taint shriek, for, step- 
ping from behind the stunted copse which had concealed him, her 
father stood unexpectedly before them. 

The reader cannot have forgotten that this was the second time in 
which the stolen interviews of the lovers had been interrupted by the 
unexpected apparition of Major Bridgenorth. 06 this second occa- 
sion his countenance exhibited anger mixed with solemnity, like 
that of the spirit to a ghost-seer, whom he upbraids with having neg- 
lected a charge imposed at their first meeting. Even his anger, 
however, produced no more violent emotion than a cold sternness of 
manner in his speech and action. “ I thank you, Alice,” he said to 
his daughter, “ for the pains you have taken to traverse my designs 
toward this young man, and tow'ard yourself. 1 thank you for the 
hints you have thrown out before my appearance, the suddenness of 
which alone has prevented you from carrying your confidence to a 
pitch which would have placed my life and that of others at the 
discretion of a boy, who, when the cause of God and his country is 
lain before him, has not leisure to think of them, so much is he oc- 
cupied with such a baby-face as thine.” Alice, pale as death, con- 
tinued motionless, with her eyes fixed on the ground, without at- 
tempting the slightest reply to the ironical reproaches of her father. 

“ And you,” continued Major Bridgenorth, turning from his 
daughter to her lover — ‘‘ you, sir, have well repaid the liberal confi- 
dence which 1 placed in you with so little reserve. “You 1 have to 
thank also for some lessons, which may teach me to rest satisfied 
with the churl’s blood which nature has poured into my veins, and 
with the rude nurture which my father allotted to me.” 

” 1 understand you not, sir,” replied Julian Peveril, who, feeling 
the necessity of saying something, could not, at the moment, find 
anything more fitting to say. 

” Yes, sir, 1 thank you,” said Major Bridgenorth, in the same cold 
sarcastic tone, ” for having shown me that breach of hospitality, 
infringement of good faith, and such like peccadilloes, are not utter- 
ly foreign to the mind and conduct of the heir of a knightly house 
of twenty descents. It is a great lesson to me, sir: for hitherto 1 
had thought with the vulgar, that gentle manners went with gentle 
blood. But perhaps courtesy is too chivalrous a quality to be wasted 
in intercourse with a round-headed fanatic like myself.” 

‘‘Major Bridgenorth,” said Julian, ‘‘whatever has happened in 
this interview which may have displeased you, has been the result 
of feelings suddenly and strongly animated by the crisis of the mo- 
ment — nothing was premeditated.” 

“ Not even your meeting, 1 suppose?” replied Bridgenorth, in the 
same cold tone. ‘‘ Y^ou, sii, wandered hither from Holm-Peel — my 
daughter strolled forth from the Black Fort; and chance, doubtless, 
assigned 3’-ou a meeting by the stone of Goddard Crovan? Young 
man, disgrace yourself by no more apologies — they are worse than 
useless. And you, maiden, who, in your fear of losing your lover, 
could verge on betraying what miaht/have cost a father liis life — be- 
gone to your home. 1 will talk with you at more leisure, and teach 
you practically those duties which you seem to have forgotten.” 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


173 

“ On my honor, sir,” said Julian, “ your daughter is guiltless ot 
all that can offend you. She resisted every offer which the head- 
strong violence ot my passion urged me to press upon her.” 

” And, in brief,” said Bridgenorth, ‘‘lam not to believe that you 
have met in this remote place of rendezvous by Alice’s special ap- 
pointment?” 

Peveril knew not what to reply, and Bridgenorth again signed 
with his hand to his daughter to withdraw. 

‘‘ 1 obey you, father,” said Alice, who had by this time recovered 
from the extremity ot her surprise — ‘‘ 1 obey you; but Heaven is 
my witness that you do me more than injustice in suspecting me 
capable of betraying your secrets, even had' it been necessary to save 
my own life or that of Julian. That you are walking in a dangerous 
path 1 well know; but you do it with your eyes open and are actu- 
ated by motives ot which you can estimate the worth and value. 
My sole wish was, that this young man should not enter blindfold 
on the same perils ; and 1 had a right to warn him, since the feelings 
by which he is hoodwinked had a direct reference to me.” 

‘‘ ’Tis w^ell, minion,” said Bridgenorth, ‘‘you have spoken your 
say. Retire, and let me complete the conference which you have so 
considerately commenced. ’ ’ 

‘‘ 1 go, sir,” said Alice. ” Julian, to you my last words are, and 1 
would speak them with my last breath— Farewell, and caution!” 

She turned from them, disappeared among the underwood, and 
was seen no more. 

‘‘ A true specimen of womankind,” said her father, looking after 
her, ‘‘ who would give the cause of nations up, rather than endanger 
a hair of her lover’s head. You, Master Peveril, doubtless, hold her 
opinion, that the best love is a safe love?” 

‘‘ Were danger alone in my way,” said Peveril, much surprised at 
the softened tone in which Bridgenorth made this observation, 
“ there are few things which 1 would not face to — to — deserve your 
good opinion.” 

‘‘Or rather to win my daughter’s hand,” said Bridgenorth. 
“ Well, young man, one thing has pleased me in your conduct, 
though of much 1 have my reasons to complain — one thing has 
pleased me. You have surmounted that bounding wall of aristo- 
cratical pride, in which your father, and, 1 suppose, his fathers, re- 
mained imprisoned as in the precincts of a feudal fortress— you have 
leaped over this barrier and shown yourself not unwilling to ally 
yourself with a family, whom your father spurns as low- born and 
ignoble.” 

However favorable this speech sounded toward success in his suit, 
it so bioadly stated the consequences of that success so far as his 
parents were concerned, that Julian felt it in the last degree difficult 
to reply. At length, perceiving that Major Bridgenorth seemed re- 
solved quietly to await his answer, he mustered up courage to say, 
‘‘The feelings which 1 entertain toward your daughter. Master 
Bridgenorth, are of a nature to supersede many other considerations, 
to wliich, in any other case, 1 should feel it my duty to give the 
most reverential attention. 1 will not disguise from you that my 
father’s prejudices against such a match would be very strong; but 
1 devoutly believe they would disappear when he came to know the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


174 

merit ot Alice Bridgenoith, and to be sensible that she only could 
make his son happy. ” 

“ In the meanwhile, j’^oii are desirous to complete the union which 
you propose without the knowledge of your parents, and take the 
chance of their being hereafter reconciled to it? So 1 understand, 
from the proposal which you made but lately to my daughter.” 

The turns of human nature, and of human passion, are so irregu- 
lar and uncertain, that although Julian had but a few minutes be- 
fore urged to Alice a private marriage, and an elopement to the con- 
tinent, as a measure upon which the whole happiness of his life 
depended, the proposal seemed not to him half so delightful when 
stated by the calm, cold, dictatorial accents of her father. It sound- 
ed no longer like the dictates of ardent passion, throwing all other 
considerations aside, but as a distinct surrender of the dignity of his 
house to one who seemed to consider their relative situation as the 
triumph of Bridgenorth over Peveril. He was mute for a moment, 
in the vain attempt to shape his answer so as at once to intimate 
acquiescence in what Bridgenorth stated, and a vindication ot his 
own legard for his parents, and for the honor of his house. 

This delay gave rise to suspicion, and Bridgenorth’s eyes gleamed, 
and his lip quivered, while he gave vent to it. “ Hark ye, young 
man — deal openly with me in this matter, if you would not have me 
think 3 "Ou the execrable villain who would have seduced my un- 
happy girl, under promises which he never designed to fulfill. Let 
me but suspect this, and you shall see, on the spot, how far your 
pride and your pedigree will preserve you against the just vengeance 
of a father.” 

“You do me wrong,” said Peveril— “ you do me infinite wrong, 
Major Bridgenorth. 1 am incapable of the infamy which you 
allude to. The proposal 1 made to your daughter was as sincere as 
ever was offered by man to woman. 1 only hesitated, because you 
think' it necessary to examine me so very closely ; and to possess 
yourself of all my purposes and sentiments, in their fullest extent, 
without explaining to me the tendency of your own.” 

“ Your proposal, then, shapes itself thus,” said Bridgenorth: — 
“You are willing to lead my only child into exile from her native 
country, to give her a claim to kindness and protection from your 
family, which you know will be disregarded, on condition 1 coiisent 
to bestow her hand on you, with a fortune sufficient to have matched 
that of your ancestors, when they had most reason to boast of their 
wealth. This, young man, seems no equal bargain. And yet,” he 
continued, after a momentary pause, “ so little do 1 value the goods 
of this world, that it might not be utterly beyond thy power to 
reconcile me to the match which you have proposed to me, however 
unequal it may appear.” 

“ Show me but the means which can propitiate your favor. Major 
Bridgenorth,” said Peveril — “ for 1 will not doubt that they will 
be consistent with my honor and duty— and you shall soon see how 
eagerly 1 will obey your directions, or submit to your conditions.” 

“ They are summed in few words,” answered Bridgenorth. “ Be 
an honest man, and the friend of your country.” 

“ No one has ever doubted,” replied Peveril, “ that 1 am both.” 

“ Pardon me,” replied the major; “ no one has, as yet, seen you 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


175 

show yourself either. Interrupt me not— 1 question not your will to 
be both; but you hav^e hitherto neither had the light nor the oppor- 
tunity necessary for the display of your principles, or the service of 
your country. You have lived wdien an apathy of mind, succeeding 
to the agitations of the Civil War, had made men indifferent to state 
affairs, and more willing to cultivate their own ease, than to stand 
in the gap when the Lord was pleading with Israel. But we are 
Englishmen; and with us such unnatural lethargy cannot continue 
long. Already, many of those who most desired the return of 
Charles Stewart, regard him as a king whom Heaven, importuned 
by our entreaties, gave to us in His anger. His unlimited license — 
an example so readily followed by the young and the gay around 
him— has disgusted the minds of all sober and thinking men. I 
had not now held conference with you in this intimate fashion, were 
1 not aware that you. Master Julian, were free from such stain of 
the times. Heaven, that rendered the king’s course of license fruit- 
ful, had denied issue to his bed of wedlock; and in the gloomy and 
stern character of his bigoted successor, w^e already see what sort of 
monarch shall succeed to the crown of England. This is a critical 
period, at which it necessarily becomes the duty of all men to step 
forward, each in his degree, and aid in rescuing the count ry which 
gave us birth. ’ ’ Peveril remembered the vrarning which he had re- 
ceived from Alice, and bent his eyes on the ground, without return- 
ing any reply. “ How is it, young man,” continued Bridgenorth, 
after a pause — “ so young as thou art, and bound by no ties of kin- 
dred profligacy with the enemies of your country, you can be already 
hardened to the claims she may form on you at this crisis?” 

“ It were easy to answer you generally. Major Bridgenorth,” re- 
plied Peveril. ” It were easy to say that my country cannot make a 
claim on me which 1 will not promptly answer at the risk of lands 
and life. But in dealing thus generally, we should but deceive each 
other. What is the nature of this call? By whom is it to be sound- 
ed? And what are to be the results? for 1 think you have already 
seen enough of the evils of civil war, to be wary of again awaken- 
ing its terrors in a peaceful and happy country.” 

” They that are drenched -with poisonous narcotics,” said the 
major, ” must be awakened by their physicians, though it were with 
the sound of the trumpet. Belter that men should die bravely, with 
their arms in their hands, like free-born Englishmen, than that they 
should slide into the bloodless but dishonored grave which slavery 
opens for its vassals. But it is not of war that 1 was about to 
speak,” he added, assuming a milder tone. ” The evils of wdiich 
England now complains, are such as can be remedied by the whole- 
some administration of her own law's, even in the state in which they 
are still suffered to exist. Have these laws not a right to the support 
of every individual who lives under them? Have they not a right 
to yours?” 

As he seemed to pause for an answer, Peveril replied, “ 1 have to 
learn, Major Bridgenorth, how the laws of England have become so 
far weakened as to require such support as mine. When that is 
made plain to me, no man will more willingly discharge the duty of 
.a faithful liegeman to the law as well as the king. But the laws of 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


176 

England are under the guardianship of upright and learned judges, 
and of a gracious monarch.” 

” And of a House of Commons,” interrupted Bridgenorth, ” no 
longer doting upon restored monarchy, but awakened, as with a 
peal of thunder, to the perilous state of our religion, and of our 
freedom. 1 appeal to your own conscience, Julian Peveril, whether 
this awakening hath not been in time; since you yourself know, and 
none better than you, the secret but rapid strides which Home has 
made to erect her Dagon of idolatry within our Protestant land.” 

Here Julian seeing, or thinking he saw, the drift of Bridgenorth’s 
suspicions, hastened to exculpate himself from the thought of favor- 
ing the Roman Catholic religion. ‘‘It is true,” he said, ‘‘1 have 
been educated in a family where that faith is professed by one hon- 
ored individual, and that 1 have since traveled in Popish countries; 
but even for these very reasons I have seen Popery too closely to be 
friendly to its tenets. The bigotry of the laymen — the persevering 
arts of the priesthood — the perpetual intrigue for the extension of the 
forms without the spirit of religion — the usurpation of that church 
over the consciences of men— and her impious pretensions to infalli- 
bility, are as inconsistent to my mind, as they can seem to yours, 
with common sense, rational liberty, freedom of conscience, and 
pure religion.” 

‘‘ Spoken like the son of your excellent mother,” said Bridge- 
north, grasping his hand; ‘‘ for whose sake 1 have consented to en- 
dure so much from your house unrequited, even when the means of 
requital were in my own hand.” 

‘‘It was indeed from the instructions of that excellent parent,” 
said Peveril, ‘‘ that 1 was enabled, in my early youth, to resist aud 
repel the insidious attacks made upon my religious faith by the 
Catholic priests into wliose company 1 was necessarily thrown. Like 
her, 1 trust to live and die in the faith of the reformed Church of 
England.” 

‘‘ The Church of England!” said Bridgenorth, dropping his young 
friend’s hand, but presently resuming it — ‘‘ Alas! that church, as 
now constituted, usurps scarcely less than Rome herself upon men’s 
consciences and liberties; yet, out of the weakness of this half -re- 
formed church, may God be pleased to worK out deliverance to Eng- 
land, and praise to Himself. 1 must not forget, that one whose 
services have been in the cause incalculable, wears the garb of an 
English priest, and hath had Episcopal ordination. It is not for us 
to challenge the instrument, so that our escape is achieved from the 
net of the fowler. Enough, that 1 find thee not as yet enlightened 
with the purer doctrine, but prepared to profit by it when the spark 
shall reach thee. Enough, in especial, that 1 find thee willing to 
uplift thy testimony, to cry aloud and spare not, against the errors 
and arts of the Church of Rome. But remember, what thou hast 
now said, thou wilt soon be called upon to justify, in a manner the 
most solemn — the most awful.” 

“ What 1 have said,” replied Julian Peveril, ‘‘ being the unbiased 
sentiments of my heart, shall, upon no proper occasion, want the 
support of my open avowal; and I think it strange you should doubt 
me so far.” 

” 1 doubt thee not, my young frieud,” said Bridgenorth; ‘‘ and i 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


m 

trust to see that name rank high amongst those by whom the prey 
shall be rent from the mighty. At present, thy prejudices occupy 
thy mind like the strong keeper ot the house mentioned in Scripture. 
But there shall come a stronger than he, and make forcible entry, 
displaying on the battlements that sign of faith in which alone there 
is found salvation. Watch, hope, and pray, that the hour may 
come.” 

There was a pause in the conversation, w^hich was fiist broken by 
Peveril. “You have spoken to me in riddles. Major Bridgenorth; 
and 1 have asked you for no explanation. Listen to a caution on 
my part, given with the most sincere good-will. Take a hint from 
me, and believe it, though it is darkly expressed. You are here — at 
least are believed to be here — on an en-aud dangerous to the lord of 
the Island. That danger wdll be retorted on yourself, if you make 
Man long your place of residence. Be warned, and depart in time. ” 

“ And leave my daughter to the guardianship of Julian Peveril! 
Runs not your counsel so, young man?” answered Bridgenorth. 
“ Trust my safety, Julian, to my own prudence. 1 have been accus- 
tomed to guide myself through worse dangers than now environ me. 
But 1 thank you tor your caution, which 1 am willing to believe w^as 
at least partly disinterested.” 

“ We do not, then, part in anger?” said Peveril. 

“ Not in anger, my son,” said Bridgenorth, “ but in love and 
strong affection. For my daughter, thou must forbear every thought 
of seeing her, save through me. 1 accept not thy suit, neither do 1 
reject it; only this 1 intimate to you, that he who would be my son, 
must first show himself the true and loving child ot his oppressed 
and deluded country. Farewell; do not answer me now, thou art 
yet in the gall of bitterness, and it may be that strife (which 1 desire 
not) should fall between us. Thou shalt hear of me sooner than 
thou thinkest for.” 

He shook Peveril heartily by the hand, and again bid him fare- 
well, leaving him under the confused and mingled impression of 
pleasure, doubt, and wonder. Not a little surprised to find himself 
so far in the good graces of Alice's father, that his suit was even 
favored with a sort of negative encouragement, he could not help 
suspecting, as well from the language of the daughter as of the 
father, that Bridgenorth was desirous, as the price of his favor, that 
he should adopt some line of conduct inconsistent with the princi- 
ples in which he had been educated. 

“ You need not tear, Alice,” he said in his heart; “ not even your 
hand would 1 purchase by aught w’hich resembled unworthy or 
truckling compliance with tenets which my heart disowns; and w'ell 
1 know, were 1 mean enough to do so, even the authority of thy 
father were insufficient to compel thee to the ratification of so mean 
a bargain. But let me hope better things. Bridgenorth, though 
strong-minded and sagacious, is haunted by the fears of Popery, 
which are (he bugbears of his sect. My residence in the family of 
the Countess of Derby is more than enough to inspire him wdth sus- 
picions of my faith, from which, thank Heaven, 1 can vindicate 
myself with truth and a good conscience.” 

So thinking, he again adjusted the girths of his palfrey, replaced 
the bit which he had slipped out of its mouth, that i^ might feed at 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


17-8 

liberty, and mounting, pursued bis way back to the Castle of Holm- 
Peel, where he could not help fearing that something extraordinary 
might have happened in his abence. 

But the old pile soon rose before him, serene, and sternly still, 
amid the sleeping ocean. The banner, which indicated that the 
Lord of Man held residence within its ruinous precints hung motion- 
less by the ensign-staff. The sentinels walked to and fro on their 
posts, and hummed or whistled their Manx airs. Leaving his faith- 
ful companion, Fairy, in the village as before, Julian entered the 
castle, and found all within in the same state of quietness and good 
order which external appearances had announced. 


CHAPTER XVllI. 

Now rede me, rede me, brother dear. 

Throughout Merry England, 

Where will I find a messenger. 

Betwixt us two to send. 

Ballad of King Estmere. 

Julian’s first renconter, after re-entering the castle, was with its 
young lord, who received him with his usual kindness and lightness 
of humor. 

“Thrice welcome, Sir Knight of Dames,” said the earl; “here 
you rove gallantly, and at free will, through our dominions, fulfill- 
ing of appointments, and achieving amorous adventures; whilst we 
are condemned to sit in our roj^al halls, as dull and as immovable as 
if our majesty was carved on the stern of some Manx smuggling 
■dogger, and christened the King Arthur of Ramsey.” 

“"Nay, in that case you would take the sea,” said Julian, “ and 
so enjoy travel and adventure enough.” 

“ Oh, but suppose me wind-bound, or detained in harbor by a rev- 
enue pink, or ashore, it you like it, and lying high and dry upon 
the sand. Imagine the royal image in the dullest of all predica- 
ments, and you have not equaled mine.” 

“lam happy lo hear, at least, that you have had no disagreeable 
employment,” said Julian; “ the morning’s alarm, has blown over, 
1 suppose?” 

“ In faith it has, Julian; and our close inquiries cannot find any 
cause tor the apprehended insurrection. That Bridgenorth is in the 
island seems certain; but private affairs of consequence aie alleged 
as ihe cause of his visit; and 1 am not desirous to have him arrested 
unless 1 could prove some malpractices against him and his com- 
panions. In tact, it would seem we had taken the alarm too soon. 
My mother speaks of consulting you on the subject, Julian; and 1 
will not anticipate her solemn communication. It will be partly 
apologetical, 1 suppose; for we begin to think our retreat rather un- 
royal, and that, like the wicked, we have lied when no man pursued. 
This idea afilicts my mother, who, as a queen-dowager, a queen- 
regent, a heroine and a woman in general, would be extremely mor- 
tified to think that her precipitate retreat hither had exposed her to 
the ridicule of the islanders; and she is disconcerted and out of 
humor accordingly. In the m.eanwhile, my solo amusement has 
been the grimaces and fantastic gestures ot that ape Fenella, who is 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


179 

more out of liumor, and more absurd in consequence, than you ever 
saw her, Morris says, it is because you pushed her down-stairs, 
Julian— how is that?” 

^ “Nay, Morris has misreported me,” answered Julian; “ 1 did but 
lift her 'i/j^stairs to be rid ot her importunity; tor she chose, in her 
way, to contest my goin^; abroad in such an obstinate manner, that 
1 had no other mode of getting rid of her.” 

“ She must have supposed your departure, at a moment so crit- 
ical, was dangerous to the state of our gan-ison,” answered the earl; 
“ it shows how dearly she esteems my mother’s safety, how highly 
she rates your prowess. But, thank Heaven, there sounds the din- 
ner-bell. 1 would the philosophers, who find a sin and waste ot 
time in good cheer, could devise us any pastime half so agreeable.” 

The meal which the young earl had thus longed tor, as a means 
of consuming a portion of the time which hung heavy on his hands, 
was soon over; as soon, at least, as the habitual and stately formality 
of the countess’s household permitted. She herself, accompanied by 
her gentlewomen and attendants, retired early after the tables were 
drawn; and the young gentlemen were left lo their own company. 
Wine had, for the moment, no charms for either; for the earl was 
out of spirits from ennui, and impatience of his monotonous and 
solitary course of life; and the events of the day had given Peveril 
too much matter for reflection, to permit his starting amusing or in- 
teresting topics of conversation. After having passed the flask in 
silence betwixt them once or twice, they withdrew each to a separate 
embrasure of the windows of the dining apartment, which, such was 
the extreme thickness of the wall, were deep enough to afford a soli- 
tary recess, separated, as it were, from the chamber itself. In one 
of these sat the Earl of Derby, busied in looking over some ot the 
new publications which had been forwarded from London; and at 
intervals confessing how little power or interest these had for him, 
by yawning fearfully as he looked out on the solitary expanse of 
waters, which, save from the flight of a flock of sea-gulls, or of a 
solitary cormorant, offered so little of variety to engage his atten- 
tion. 

Peveril, on his part, held a pamphlet also in his hands, wfithout 
giving, or affecting to give, it even his occasional attention. His 
whole soul turned upon the interview which he had had that day 
with Alice Bridgenorth, and with her father; while he in vain en- 
deavored to form any hypothesis which could explain to him w hy the 
daughter, to whom he had no reason to think himself indifferent, 
should have been so suddenly desirous of their eternal sepamtion, 
while her father, whose opposition he so much dreaded, seemed to 
be at least tolerant, of his addresses. He could only suppose, in ex- 
planation, that Major Bridgenorth had some plan in prospect, 
which it was in his own power to further or to impede; while, from 
the demeanor, and indeed the language, of Alice, he had but too 
much reason to apprehend that her father’s favor could only be 
conciliated by something, on his own part, approaching lo derelic- 
tion ot principle. But by no conjecture which he could form, could 
he make the least guess concerning the nature of that compliance, 
of which Bridgenorth seemed desirous. He could not imagine, not- 
withstanding Alice liad spoken of treachery, that her father would 


180 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


dare to propose to him uniting in any plan by which the safety of 
the countess, or the security of her little kingdom of Man, was to 
be endangered. This carried such indelible disgrace in the front, 
that he could not suppose the scheme proposed to him by any who 
was not prepared to defend with his sword, upon the spot, so fla- 
grant an insult offered to his honor. And such a proceeding was to- 
tally inconsistent with the conduct of Major Bridgenorth in every 
other respect, besides his being too calm and cold-blooded to permit 
of his putting a mortal affront upon the son of his old neighbor, to 
whose mother he confessed so much of obligation. 

While Peveril in vain endeavored to extract something like a 
probable theory out of the hints thrown out by the father and by 
the daughter— not without the additional and lover like labor of en- 
deavoring to reconcile his passion to his honor and conscience — he 
felt something gently pull him by the cloak. He unclasped his 
arms, which, in meditation, had been folded on his bosom; and 
withdrawing his eyes from the vacant, jirospect of sea-coast and sea 
which they perused, without much consciousness upon what they 
rested, he beheld beside him the little dumb maiden, the elfin 
Fenella. She was seated on a low cushion or stool, with 
which she had nestled close to Peverfl’s side, and had remained 
there for a short space of time, expecting no doubt, he would be- 
come conscious of her presence; until, tired of remaining unno- 
ticed, she at length solicited his attention in the manner which we 
have described. Startled out of his reverie by this intimation of her 
presence, he looked down, and could not, without interest, behold 
this singular and helpless being. 

Her hair was unloosened, and streamed over her shoulders in 
such length, that much of it lay upon the ground, and in such 
quantity, that it formed a dark veil, or shadow, not only around 
her face, but over her whole slender and minute form. From the 
profusion of her tresses looked forth her small and dark, but well- 
formed features, together with the large and brilliant black eyes; 
and her whole countenance was composed into the imploring look 
of one who is doubtful of the reception she is about to meet with 
from a valued friend, while she confesses a fault, pleads an apol- 
ogy, or solicits a reconciliation. In short, the whole face was so 
much ali\re with expression, that Julian, though her aspect was so 
familiar to him, could hardly persuade himself but that her coun- 
tenance was entirely new. The wild, fantastic, elvish vivacity of the 
features seemed totally vanished, and had given place to a sorrow- 
ful, tender, and pathetic cast of countenance, aided by the expres- 
sion of the large dark eyes, which, as they w^ere turned up toward 
Julian, glistened with moisture, that, nevertheless, did not overflow 
the eyelids. 

Conceiving that her unwonted manner arose from a recollection 
of the dispute which had taken place betwixt them in the morning, 
Peveril was anxious to restore the little maiden’s gayety, by making 
her sensible that there dwell on his mind no unpleasing recollection 
of their quarrel. He smiled kindly, and shook her hand in one of 
his; while, with the familiarity of one who had known her from 
childhood, he stroked down her long dark tresses with the other. 
She stooped her head, as il ashamed, and, at the same time, grati- 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


181 


fiecl with liis caresses— and he was thus induced to continue them, 
until, under the veil of her rich and abundant locks, he suddenly 
felt his other hand, which she still held fast in hers, slightly 
touched with her lips, and, at the same time, moistened with a tear. 

At once, and for the first time in his life, the danger of being 
misinterpreted in his familiarity with a creature to whom the usual 
modes of explanation were a blank, occurred to Julian’s mind; and, 
hastily withdrawing his hand, and changing his posture, he asked 
of her, by a sign which custom had rendered familiar, whether she 
brought any message to him from the countess. In an instant 
Fenella’s whole deportment was changed. She started up, and ar- 
ranged herself in her seat with the rapidity of lightning; and, at 
the same moment, with one turn of her hand, braided her length of 
locks into a natural head-diess of the most beautiful kind. There 
was, indeed, when she looked up, a blush still visible on her dark 
features; but their melancholy and languid expression had given 
place to that of wild and restless vivacity, which was most common 
to them. Her eyes gleamed with more than their wonted fire, and 
her glances were more piercingly wild and unsettled than usual. To 
Julian’s inquiry, she answered, by la5dng her band on hei heart— a 
motion by whicn she always indicated the countess— and rising, 
taking the direction of her apartment, she made a sign to Julian to 
follow her. 

The distance was not great betwixt the dining apartment and that 
to which Peveril now followed his mute gaide; yet, in going thither, 
he had time enough to sufler cruelly from the sudden suspicion, 
that this unhappy girl had misinterpreted the uniform kindness with 
which he had treated her, and hence come to regard him with feel- 
ings more tender than those which belong to friendship. The mis- 
ery which such a passion was likely to occasion to a creature in her 
helpless situation, and actuated by such lively feelings, was great 
enough to make him refuse credit to the suspicion which pressed it- 
self upon his mind ; while, at the same time, he formed the internal 
resolution so to conduct himself toward Fenella, as to check such 
misplaced sentiments, if indeed she unhappily entertained them 
toward him. 

When they reached the countess’s apartment, they found her with 
writing implements, and many sealed letters, before her. She re- 
ceived Julian with her usual kindness; and having- caused him to 
be seated, beckoned to the mute to resume her needle. In an instant 
Fenella was seated at an embroidering-frame; where, but for the 
movement of her dexterous fingers, she might hare seemed a 
statue, so little did she move from her work either head or eye. As 
her infirmity rendered her presence no bar to the most confidential 
conversation, the countess proceeded to address Peveril as it they 
had been literally alone together. 

“ Julian,” she said, “lam not now about to complain to you of 
the sentiments and conduct of Derby. He is your friend— he is my 
son. He has kindness of heart and vivacity of talent; and yet — ” 

“ Dearest lady,” said Peveril, ” why will you distress yourself 
with fixing your eye on deficiencies which arise rather from a 
change of times and manners, than any degeneracy of my noble 
friend? Let him be once engaged in his duty, whether in peace or 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


182 

war, and let me pay the penalty if he acquits not himself becoming 
his high station.'' 

“Ay,” replied the countess; “but when will the call of duty 
prove superior to that of the most idle or trivial indulgence which 
can serve to drive over the lazy hour. His father was of another 
mold; and how often was it my lot to entreat that he would spare, 
from the rigid discharge of those duties which his high station im- 
posed, the relaxation absolutely necessary to recruit his health and 
his spirits!” 

“ Still, my dearest lady>” said Peveril, “ you must allow, that 
the duties to which the times summoned your late honored lord 
were of a more stirring, as well as a more peremptory cast, than 
those which await your son.” 

“ 1 know not that,” said the countess. “ The wheel appears to be 
again revolving; and the present period is not unlikely to bring back 
such scenes as my younger years witnessed. Well, be it so; they 
will not find Charlotte de la Tremouille broken in spirit, though 
depressed by years. It was even on this subject 1 w^ould speak with 
you, my young friend. Since our first early acquaintance — when 1 
saw your gallant behavior as I issued forth to your childish eye, 
like an apparition, from mj?- place of concealment in your fathei ’s 
castle — it has pleased me to think you a true son of Stanley and 
Peveril. 1 trust your nurture in this family has been ever suited to 
the esteem in which 1 hold you. Nay, 1 desire no thanks. 1 have 
to require of you, in return, a piece of service, not perhaps entirely 
safe to yourself, but which, as times are circumstanced, no person 
is so well able to render to my house.” 

“You have been ever my good and noble ladyj’ answered 
, Peveril, “ as well as my kind, and 1 may say maternal, protectress. 
You have a light to command the blood of Stanley in the veins of 
every one. You have a thousand rights to command it in mine.”* 

“ My advices from England,” said the countess, “ resemble more 
the dreams of a sick man, than tlie regular information which 1 
might have expected from such coi respondents as mine; their ex- 
pressions are like those of men who walk in their sleep, and speak 
by snatches of what passes in their dreams. It is said, a plot, real 
or fictitious, has been detected amongst the Catholics, which has 
spread far wider ana more uncontrollable terror than that of the 
fifth of November. Its outlines seem utterly incredible, and are 
only supported by the evidence of wretches, the meanest and most 
worthless in the creation; yet it is received by the credulous people 
of England with the most undoubting belief.” 

“ This is a singular ^delusion, to rise without some real ground,” 
answered Julian. 

“ 1 am no bigot, cousin, though a Catholic,” replied the countess. 
“ 1 have long feared that the well-meant zeal of our priests tor in- 
creasing converts would draw on them the suspicion of the English 
nation. These efforts have been renewed with double energy since 
the Duke of York conformed to the Catholic faith; and the same 
event has doubled the hate and jealousy of the Protestants. So tar, 

* The reader cannot have forgotten that the Earl of Derby was head of the 
great house of Stanley. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


183 

. 1 fear, there may be just cause for suspicion, that the duke is a bet- 
ter Catholic than an Englishman, and that bigotry has involved him, 
as avarice, or the needy greed of a prodigal, has engaged his 
brother, in relations with Erance, whereof England may have too 
much reason to complain. But the gross, thick, and palpable fab- 
rications of conspiracy and murder, blood and fire— the imaginary' 
armies— the intended massacres — form a collection of falsehoods 
that one would have thought indigestible, even by the coarse appe- 
tite of the vulgar for the marvelous and horrible, but which are, 
nevertheless, received as truth by both Houses of Parliament, and 
questioned by no one who is desirous to escape the odious appella- 
tion of friend to the bloody Papists, and favorer of their infernal 
schemes of cruelty. ” 

“ But what say those who are most likely to be a^ected by these 
wild reports!” said Julian. “ What say the English Catholics 
themselves — a numerous and wealthy body, comprising so many 
noble names?” 

” Their hearts are dead within them,” said the countess. “ They 
are like sheep penned up in the shambles, that the butcher may take 
his choice among them. In the obscure and brief communications 
which I have had by a secure hand, they do but anticipate their 
own utter ruin, and ours— so general is the depression, so universal 
the despair.” 

‘‘But the king,” said Peveril — ‘‘the king and the Protestant 
royalists — what say they to this growing tempest?” 

‘‘ Charles,” replied the countess, ‘‘ with his usual selfish prudence, 
truckles to the storm ; and will let cord and ax do their work on 
the most innocent men in his dominions, rather than Jose an hour of 
pleasure in attempting their rescue. And, for the royalists, either 
they have caught the general delirium which has seized on Protest- 
ants in general, or they stand aloof and neutral, afraid to show any 
interest in the unhappy Catholics, lest they be judged altogether 
such as themselves, and abettors of the fearful conspiracy in which 
they are alleged to be engaged. In fact, 1 cannot blame them. It 
is hard to expect that mere compassion for a persecuted sect— or 
what is yet more rare, an abstract love of justice — should be power- 
ful enough to engage men to expose themselves to the awakened fury 
of a whole people; for, in the present state of general agitation, 
whoever disbelieves the least tittle of the enormous improbabilities 
which have been accumulated by these wretched informers, is in- 
stantly hunted down, as one who would smother the discovery of 
the plot. It is indeed an awful tempest; and, remote as we lie from 
its sphere, we must expect soon to feel its effects.” 

“Lord Derby already told me something of this,” said Julian; 
“ and that there were agents in this island whose object was to ex- 
cite insurrection.” 

“ Yes,” answered the countess, and her eye flashed fire as she 
spoke; “ and had my advice been listened to, they had been appre- 
hended in the very fact; and so dealt with, as to be a warning to all 
others how they sought this independent principality on such an er- 
rand. But my son, who is generally so culpably negligent of his 
own affairs, was pleased to assume the management of them upon 
this crisis.” 


184 


PEVEIUL OF THE PEAK. 


“ 1 am linppy to learn, madam,” answered Peveril, “that the 
measures ot precaution which my kinsman has adopted, have had 
the complete effect of disconcerting? the conspiracy. ’ ’ 

“For the present, Julian; but they should have been such as 
would have made the boldest tremble to think ot such infringment 
of our rights in future. But Derby’s present plan is fraugtit with 
greater danger; and yet there is something in it of gallantry, which 
has my sympath}^” 

“ What is is, madam?” inquired Julian, anxiously; “ and in what 
can 1 aid it, or avert its dangers?” 

“ He purposes,” said the countess, “ instantly to set forth for 
London. He is, he says, not merely the feudal chief ot a small 
island, but one ot the noble peers of England, who must not reniain 
in the security of an obscure and distant castle, when his name, or 
that of his mother, is slandered before hts prince and people. He 
will take his place, he says, in the House of Lords, and publicly 
demand justice for the insult thrown on his house, by perjured and 
interested witnesses. ’ ’ 

“It is a generous resolution, and worthy of my friend,” said 
Julian Peveril. “ 1 will go with him, and share his late, be it what 
it may.” 

“Alas, foolish boy!” answered the countess, “ as well may you 
ask a hungry lion to feel compassion, as a prejudiced and furious 
people to do justice. They are like the madman at the height of 
frenzy, who murders without compunction his best and dearest 
friend ; and only wonders and wails over his own cruelty, when he 
is recovered from his delirium.” 

“ Pardon me, dearest lady,” said Julian, “ this cannot be. The 
noble and generous people of England cannot be thus strangely 
misled. Whatever prepossessions may be current among the more 
vulgar, the Houses of Legislature cannot be deeply infected by them 
— they will remember their own dignity. ” 

“ Alas! cousin,” answered the countess, “ when did Englishmen, 
even of the highest degree, remember anything, >vhen hurried away 
by the violence of party feeling? Even those who have too much 
sense to believe in the incredible fictions wdiich gull the multitude, 
will beware how they expose them, if their own political party can 
gain a momentary advantage by their being accredited. 4t is 
amongst such, too, that your kinsman has found friends and associ* 
ates. Keglectiug the old friends of his house, as too grave and for- 
mal companions for the humor of the times, his intercourse has 
been witu the versatile Shaftesbury — the mercurial Buckingham — 
men who would not hesitate to sacrifice to the popular Moloch of 
the day whatsoever or whomsoever whose'ruin could propitiate the 
deity. Forgive a mother’s tears, kinsman; but 1 see the scaffold at 
Bolton again erected. If Derby goes to London while these blood- 
hounds are in full cry, obnoxious as he is, and 1 have made him by 
my religious faith, and my conduct in this island, he dies his 
father’s death. And yet upon what other course to resolve — !” 

“ Let me go to London, madam,” said Peveril, much moved by 
the distress of his patroness; “ your ladyship was wont to rely some- 
thing on my judgment. 1 will act for the best — will communicate 
with those whom you point out to me, and only with them; and I 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


185 

trust soon to send you information that this delusion, however 
strong it may now be, is in the course of passing away; at the worst, 
1 can apprize you of the danger, should it menace the earl or your- 
self ; and may be able also to point out the means by which it may 
be ended.” 

The countess listened with a countenance in which the anxiety of 
maternal aftection, which prompted her to embrace Peveril’s gener- 
ous offer, struggled with her native disinteiested and generous dis- 
position, ” Think what you ask of me, Julian,” she replied, with 
a sigh. ” Would you have me expose the life of my friend’s son to 
those perils to which 1 refuse my own? No, never!” 

” Nay, but, madam,” replied Julian, “ 1 do not run the same risk 
— my person is not known in London — my situation, though not 
obscure in my own country, is too little known to be noticed in 
that huge assemblage of all that is noble and wealthy. No whisper, 
1 presume, however indirect, has connected my name with the al- 
leged conspiracy. I am a Protestant, above all ; and can be accused 
of no intercourse, direct or indirect, with the Church of Rome. My 
-connections also lie amongst those, who, if they do not, or cannot, 
befriend me, cannot at least be dangerous to me. In a word, 1 run 
no danger where the earl might incur great peril.” 

” Alas!” said the Countess of Derby, ” all this generous reason- 
ing may be true ; but it could only be listened to by a widowed 
mother. Selfish as 1 am, 1 cannot but reflect that my kinswoman 
has, in all events, the support of an afi:ectionate husband — such is 
the interested reasoning to which we are not ashamed to subject our 
better feelings?” 

” Do not call it so, madam,” answered Peveril; ” think of me but 
as the younger brother of my kinsman. You have ever done by 
me the duties of a mother; and have aright to my filial service, 
w^ere it at a risk ten times greater than a journey to London, to in- 
quire into the temper of the times. 1 will instantly go and announce 
my departure to the earl. 

” Stay, Julian,” said the countess; “ it you must make this jour- 
ney in our behalf — and, alas ! 1 have not generosity enough to re- 
fuse your noble proffer — 5 mu must go alone, and without communi- 
cation with Derby. 1 know him well ; his lightness of mind is free 
from selfish baseness; and for the world, would hO not suffer you 
to leave Man without his company. And if he went with you, 
your noble and disinterested kindness would be of no avail — you 
would but share his ruin, as the swimmer who attempts to save a 
drowning man is involved in his fate, if he permit the sufferer to 
grapple with him.” 

” It shall be as you please, madam,” said Peveril. ” 1 am ready 
to depart upon half an hour’s notice.” 

“ This night, then,” said the countess, after a moment’s pause — 
” this night 1 will arrange the most secret means of carrying your 
generous project into effect; tor 1 would not excite that prejudice 
against you, which will instantly arise, were it known, you had so 
lately left this island, and its Popish lady. You will do well, per- 
haps, to use a feigned name in London.” 

‘‘ Pardon me, madam,” said Julian; ‘‘1 will do nothing that can 
draw on me unnecessary attention ; but to bear a feigned name, or 


186 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


fiilect any disguise beyond living with extreme privacy, would, I 
think, be unwise as well as unworthy; and which, if challenged, I 
might find some difficulty in assigning a reason for, consistent with 
perfect fairness of intentions.” 

“1 believe you are right,” answered the countess, after a mo- 
ment’s consideration; and^then added, ” You propose, doubtless, to 
pass through Derbyshire, and visit Martindale Castle?” 

” 1 should wish it, madam, certainly,” replied Peveril, “ did time 
permit, and circumstances render it advisable.” 

‘‘ Of that,” said the countess, ‘‘ you must yourself judge. Dis- 
patch is, doubtless, desirable; on the other hand, arriving from your 
own family-seat, you will be less an object of doubt and suspicion,, 
than if you posted up from hence, without even visiting your par- 
ents. You must be guided in this — in all, by your own prudence. 
Go, my dearest son — tor to me you should be dear as a son — go, 
and prepare for your journey. 1 will get ready some dispatches, 
and a supply of money. Nay, do not object. Am I not your 
mother? and are you not discharging a son’s duty? Dispute not 
,my right of defraying your expenses. Nor is this all; for, as 1 must 
trust your zeal and prudence to act in our behalf when occasion 
shall demand, I will furnish you with effectual recommendations ta 
our friends and kindred, entreating and enjoining them to render 
whatever aid you may require, either for your own protection, or 
the advancement of what you may propose in our favor.” 

Peveril made no further opposition to an arrangement, which in 
truth the moderate state of his own finances rendered almost indis- 
pensable, unless with his father’s assistance; and the countess put 
into his hand bills of exchange to the amount of two hundred 
pounds, upon a merchant in the city. She then dismissed Julian 
for the space of an hour; after which, she said, she must again re- 
quire his presence. ^ 

The preparations '^f or his journey were not of a nature to divert 
the thoughts which speedily pressed on him. He found that half 
an hour’s conversation had once more completely changed his im- 
mediate prospects and plans for the future. He had o&red to the 
Countess of Derby a service, which her uniform kindness had well 
deserved at his hand; but, by her accepting it, he was. upon the 
point of being separated from Alice Bridgenorth, at a time when 
she was become dearer to him than ever, by her avowal of mutual 
passion. Her image rose before him, such as he had that day 
pressed her to his bosom — her voice was in his ear, and seemed to 
ask whether he could desert her in the crisis which everything 
seemed to announcp as impending. But Julian Peveril, his youth 
considered, was strict in judging his duty, and severely resolved in 
executing it. He trusted not his imagination to pursue the vision 
which presented itself, but resolutely seizing his pen, wrote to Alice 
the following letter, explaining his situation, as far as justice to the 
countess permitted him to do so — 

” 1 leave you dearest Alice,” thus ran the letter, ” 1 leave 3 ’’Ou; 
and though, in doing so, 1 but obey the command you have laid on 
me, yet 1 can claim little merit for my compliance, since, without 
additional and most forcible reasons in aid of your orders, I fear 1 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


1S7 

should have been unable to comply with them. But family affairs 
of importance compel me to absent myself from this island, for, 1 
fear, moie than one week. My thoughts, hopes, and wishes will 
be on the moment that shall restore me to the Black Fort, and its 
lovely valley. Let me hope that yours wiW sometimes rest on the 
lonely exile, whom nothing could, render such but the command of 
honor and duty. Do not fear that 1 mean to involve you in a pri- 
vate correspondence, and let not your father fear it. 1 could not 
love you so much but for the openness and candor of your nature; 
and 1 would not that you concealed from Major Bridgenoitn one 
syllable of what 1 now avow. Respecting other matters, he himself 
cannot desire the welfare of our common country with more zeal 
than 1 do. Differences may occur concerning the mode in which 
that is to be obtained; but, in the principle, i am convinced there 
can be only one mind between us; nor can 1 refuse to listen to his 
experience and wisdom, even where they may ultimately fail to 
convince me. Farewell— Alice, farewell! Much might be added to 
that melancholy word, but nothing that could express the bitterness 
with which it is written. Yet 1 could transcribe it again and again, 
rather than conclude the last communication wLich 1 can have with 
you for some time. My sole comfort is, that my stay will scarce be 
so long as to permit you to forget one who never can forget you.” 

He held the paper in his hand for a minute after he had folded, 
but before he had sealed it, while he hurriedly debated in liis own 
mind whether he had not expressed himself toward Major Bridge- 
north in so conciliating a manner as might excite hopes of prosely- 
tism, which liis conscience told him he could not realize with h^^nor. 

Yet, on the other hand, he had no right, from what Bridgenorth 
had said, to conclude that their principles were diametrically 
irreconcilable; for though the son of a high Cavalier, and educated 
in the family of the Couutess of Derby, he was himself, upon prin- 
ciple, an enemy of prerogative, and a friend to the liberty of the 
subject. And with such considerations he silenced all internal ob- 
jections on. the point of honor; although his conscience secretly 
whispered that these conciliatory expressions toward the father were 
chiefly dictated by the fear, that during his absence Major Bridge- 
north might be tempted to change the residence of his daughter, and 
perhaps to convey her altogether out of his reach. 

Having sealed his letter, Julian called his servant, and directed 
him to carry it under cover of one addressed to Mrs. Debbitch, to a 
house in the town of Rushin, where packets and messages intended 
for the family at Black Fort were usually deposited; and for that 
purpose to take horse immediately. He thus got rid of an attend- 
ant, who might have been in some degree a spy on his motions, 
fie then exchanged the dress he usually wore for one more suited 
to traveling; and, having put a change or two of linen into a small 
cloak-bag, selected as arms a strong double-edged sword and an ex- 
cellent pair of pistols, which last he carefully loaded with double 
bullets. Thus appointed, and with twenty pieces in his purse, and 
the bills we have mentioned secured in a private pocket-book, he 
was in readiness to depart as soon as he should receive the countess’s 
commands. • 


188 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


The bii 03 ^ant spirit of youth and hope, which had for a moment 
been chilled by the painful and dubious circumstances in which he 
was placed, as well as the deprivation which he was about to un- 
dergo, now revived in full vigor. Fancy, turning from more pain- 
ful anticipations, suggested to him that he was now entering upon 
life, at a crisis when resolution and talents were almost certain to 
make the fortune of their possessor. How could he make a more 
honorable entry on the bustling scene, than sent by, and acting in 
behalf of, one of the noblest houses in England; and should he 
perform what his charge might render incumbent with the resolu- 
tion and the prudence necessary to secure success, how many occur- 
rences might take place to render his mediation necessary to Bridge- 
north ; and thus enable him, on the most equal and honorable terms,, 
to establish a claim to his gratitude and to his daughter’s hand. 

Whilst he was dwelling on such pleasing, though imaginary pros- 
pects, he could not help exclaiming aloud — “ Yes, Alice, 1 will wiu 
thee nobly!” The -words had scarce escaped his lips, when he 
heard at the door of his apartment, which the servant had left ajar, 
a sound like a deep sigh, which was instantly succeeded by a gentle 
tap — “ Come in,” replied Julian, somewhat ashamed of his ex- 
clamation, and not a little afraid that it had been caught up by 
some eavesdropper — “Come in,” lie again repeated; but his com- 
mand was not obeyed; on the contrary, the Knock was repeated 
somewhat louder. He opened the door, and Fenella stood before him. 

With eyes that seemtd red with recent tears, and with a look of 
the deepest dejection, the little mute, first touching her bosom, and 
beckoning with her finger, made to him the usual sign that the 
countess desired to see him— then turned, as it to usher him to her 
apartment. As he followed her through the long gloomy vaulted 
passages which afltorded communication betwixt the various apart- 
ments of the castle, he could not but observe that her usual light trip 
was exchanged for a tardy and mournful step, which she accom- 
panied with low inarticulate moaning (which she was probably the 
less able to suppress, because she could not judge how far it was 
audible), and also with wringing of the hands, and othbr marks of 
extreme affliction. 

At this moment a thought came across Peveril’s mind, which, in 
spite of his tetter reason, made him shudder involuntarily. As a 
Peaksman, and a long resident in the Isle of Man, he was well ac- 
quainted with many a superstitious legend, and particularly with a 
belief, which attached to the powerful family of the Stanleys, for 
their peculiar demon, a Banshee, or female spirit, who was wont to 
shriek “ foreboding evil times;” and who was generally seen weep- 
ing and bemoaning herself before the death of any person of dis- 
tinction belonging to the family. For an instant, Julian could scarce 
divest himself of the belief, that the wailing, gibbering form, which 
glided before him, with a lamp in her hand, was the genius of his 
mother’s race came to announce to him his predestined doom. It 
instantly occurred to him as an analogous reflection, that if the sus- 
picion which had crossed his mind concernng Fenella was a just 
one, her ill-fated attachment to him, like that of the prophetic spirit 
to his family, could bode nothing but disaster, and lamentatioDp. 
and woe. 


f 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


189 


r 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Now, hoist the anchor, mates— and let the sails 
Give their broad bosom to the buxom wind. 

Like lass that wooes a lover. 

Anonymous. 

The presence of the countess dispelled the superstitious feeling' 
-which, for an instant, had encroached on J ulian’s imagination, and 
compelled him to give attention to the matters of ordinary life. 
“ Here are your credentials,” she said, giving him a small packet 
carefully put up in a sealskin cover; “ you had better not open them 
till you come to London, \ ou must not be surprised to find that 
there are one or two addressed to men of my own persuasion. 
These, for all our sakes, you will observe caution in delivering.” 

” I go your messenger, madam,” said Peveril; “and whatever 
you desire me to charge myself with, of that 1 undertake the care. 
Yet allow me to doubt whether an intercourse with Catholics will 
at this moment forward the purposes of my mission.” 

“You have caught the general suspicion of this wicked sect 
already,” said the countess, smiling, “and are the fitter to go 
amongst Englishmen in their present mood. But, my cautious 
friend, these letters are so addressed, and the persons to whom they 
are addressed so disguised, that you will run no danger in conversing 
with them. Without their aid, indeed, you will not be able to ob- 
tain the accurate information you go in search of. None can tell so 
exactly how the wind sets, as the pilot whose vessel is exposed to the 
storm. Besides, though you Protestants deny our priesthood the 
harmlessness of the dove, you are ready enough to allow us a full 
share of the wisdom of the serpent; in plain terms, their means of 
informal ion are extensive, and they are not deficient in the power 
of applying it. I therefore wish you to have the benefit of their in- 
telligence and advice, if possible.” 

“ Whatever you impose on me as a part of my duty, madam, rely 
on its being discharged punctually,” answered Peveril. “And 
now, as there is little use in deferring the execution of a purpose 
when once fixed, let me know your ladyship’s wishes concerning my 
departure.” 

“ It must be sudden and secret,” said the countess; “ the island 
is full of spies ; and I would not wish that any of them should have 
notice that an envoy of mine was about to leave Man for London. 
Can you be i^dy to go on board to-morrow?” 

“ to-night— this instant if you will,” said Julian— “my little 
preparations are complete.” 

“ Be ready, then, in your chamber, at two hours after midnight. 
1 will send one to summon you, for our secret must be communi- 
cated, for the present, to as few as possible. A foreign sloop is en- 
gaged to carry you over; then make the best of your way to Lon- 
don, by Martmdale Castle or otherwise, as you find most advisable. 
When it is necessary to announce your absence, 1 will say you are 
gone to see your parents. But stay— your journey will be ou horse- 


190 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


l)ack, of course, from Whitehaven, You have hills of exchange, it 
is true; but are you provided with ready money to furnish yourself 
with a good horse?” 

” 1 am sufficiently rich, madam,” answered Julian; “and good 
nags are plenty in Cumberland. There are those among them who 
know how to come by them good and cheap. ” 

“Trust not to that,” said the countess. “Here is w'hat will 
piircliase tor you the best Horse on the Borders. Can you be sim- 
ple enough to refuse it?” she added, as she pressed on him a heavy 
purse, which he saw himself obliged to accept. 

“ A good horse, Julian,” continued the countess, “and a good 
sword, next to a good heart and head, are the accomplishments of a 
cavalier.” 

“ 1 kiss your hands, then, madam,” said Peveril, “ and humbly 
beg you to believe, that whatever may fail in my present undertak- 
ing, my purpose to serve you, my noble kinswoman and benefactress, 
can at least never swerve or falter.” 

“ 1 know it, my son, 1 know it; and may God forgive me if my 
anxiety for your friend has sent you on dangers which should have 
been his! Go — go — May saints and angels bless you! Fenella shall 
acquaint him that you sup in your own apartment. So indeed will 
1; tor to-night 1 should be unable to face my son’s looks. Little 
will he thank me for sending you on his errand; and there will be 
many to ask, whether it was like the Lady of Latham to trust her 
friend’s son on the danger which should have been braved by her 
own. But oh! Julian, I am now a forlorn widow, whom sorrow 
has made selfish!” 

“ Tush, madam,” answered Peveril; “ it is more unlike the Lady 
of Latham to anticipate dangers wdiich may not exist at all, and to 
which, if they do indeed occur, 1 am less obnoxious than my noble 
kinsman. Farewell! All blessings attend you, madam. Commend 
me to Derby, and make him my excuses. I shall expect a summons 
at two hours after midnight.” 

They took an affectionate leave of each other; the more affec- 
tionate, indeed, on the part of the countess, that she could not en- 
tirely reconcile her generous mind to exposing Peveril to danger on 
her son’s behalf ; and Julian betook himself to his solitary apart- 
ment. 

His servant soon afterward brought him wine and refreshments; 
to which, notwithstanding the various matters he had to occupy . 
his mind, he contrived to do reasonable justice. But when this 
needful occupation was finished, his thoughts began to stream in 
upon him like a troubled tide— at once recalling the past, and an- 
ticipating the future. It was in vain that he wrapped himself in his 
riding-cloak, and, lying down on his bed, endeavor^ to compose 
himself to sleep. The uncertainty of the prospect before him— the 
doubt how Bridgenorth might dispose of his daughter during his 
ab ence-— the fear that the major himself might fall into the p^ower 
of the vindictive countess, besides a numerous train of vague and 
half-formed apprehensions, agitated his blood, and rendered slumber 
impossible. Alternately to recline in the old oaken easj^-chair, and 
listen to the dashing of the waves under the windows, mingled, as 
the sound was, with the scream of the sea-birds; or to traverse the 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


191 

apartment with long and slow steps, pausing occasionally to look 
out on the sea, slumbering under the influence of a full moon, which 
tipped each wave with silver — kich were the only pastimes he could 
invent, until midnight had passed for one hour; the next was wast- 
ed in anxious expectation ot the summons of departure. 

At length it arrived — a tap at his door was followed by a low- 
murmur, which made him suspect that the countess had again em- 
ployed her mute attendant as the most secure minister of her pleas- 
ure on this occasion. He felt something like impropriety in this 
selection ; and it -was with a feeling of impatience alien to the natural 
generosity ot his temper, that, when he opened the door, he beheld 
the dumb maiden standing before him. The lamp which he held 
in his hand showed his features distinctly, and probably made 
Fenella aware of the expression which animated them. She cast 
her large dark eyes mournlully on the ground; and, without again 
looking him in the face, made him a signal to follow her. He de- 
laj'^ed no longer than was necessary to secure his pistols in his belt, 
wrap his cloak closer around him, and take his small portmanteau 
under his arm. Thus accoutered, he followed her out of the keep 
or inhabited part of the castle, by a series of obscure passages lead- 
ing to a postern gate, whieh she unlocked with a key, selected from 
a bundle which she carried at her girdle. 

They now stood in the castle-yard, in the open moonlight, which 
glimmered white and ghastly on the variety of strange and ruinous 
objects to which we have formerly alluded, and which gave the 
scene rather the appearance of some ancient cemetery, than of the 
interior of a fortiflcation. The round and elevated tower — the an- 
cient mount, with its quadrangular sides facing the ruinous edifices 
which once boasted the name of the Cathedral — seemed of yet more 
antique and anomalous form, when seen by the pale light which 
now displayed them. To one ot these churches Fenella took the 
direct course, and was followed by Julian;- although he at once di- 
vined, and was superstitious enough to dislike, the path which she 
was about to adopt. It was by a secret passage through this church, 
that in former times the guard-room of the garrison, situated at the 
lower and external defenses, communicated with the keep of tlie 
castle; and through this passage were the keys of the castle every 
night carried to the governor’s apartment, so soon as the gates were 
locked, and the watch set. The custom was given up in James the 
First’s time, and the passage abandoned, on account of the well 
known legend ot the Mautlie Dog — a fiend, or demon, in the shape 
of a large, shaggy, black mastiff, by which the church was said to 
be hauiked. It jvas devoutly believed, that in former times this 
specter became so familiar with mankind; as to appear almost nightly 
in the guard-room, issuing from (he passage which we have men- 
tioned at night, and retiring to it at daybreak. The soldiers became 
partly familiarized to its presence; yet not so much so as to use any 
license of language while the apparition was visible; until one fel- 
low, rendered daring by intoxication, swore he would know 
whether it was dog or devil, and, with his drawn sword, followed 
the specter when it retreated by the usual passage. The man re- 
turned in a tew minutes, sobered by terror, his mouthy gaping, and 
his hair standing on end, under which horror he died; but, im- 


192 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


happily for the lovers of the marvelous, altogether unable to dis- 
close the horrors which he had seen. Under the evil repute arising 
from this tale of wonder, the guard-room was abandoned and a new 
one constructed. In like manner, the guards after that period held 
another and more circuitous communication with the governor or 
seneschal of the castle; and that which lay through the ruinous 
church was entirely abandoned.* 

In defiance of the legendary terrors which tradition had attached 
to t!ie original communication, Fenella, followed by Peveril, now 
boldly traversed the ruinous vaults through which it lay — some- 
times only guided over heaps of ruins by the precarious light of the 
lamp borne by the dumb maiden— sometimes having the advantage 
of a gleam of moonlight, darting into the dreary abyss through the 
shafted windows, or through breaches made by time. As the path 
was by no means a straight one, Peveril could not but admire the 
intimate acquaintance with the mazes which his singular companion 
displayed, as well as the boldness with which she traversed them. 
He himself was not so utterly void of the prejudices of the times, 
but that he contemplated, with some apprehension, the possibility of 
their intruding on the lair of the phantom hound, of which he had 
heard so often; and in every remote sigh of the breeze among the 
ruins, he thought he heard him baying at the mortal footsteps which 
disturbed his gloomy realm. No such terrors, however, interrupted 
their journey; and in the course of a few minutes, they attained 
the deserted and now ruinous guard-house. The broken walls of 
tire little edifice served to conceal them from the sentinels, one of 
whom was keeping a drowsy watch at the lower gate of the castle; 
whilst another, seated on the stone steps which communicated with 
the parapet of the bounding and exterior wall, was slumbering, in 
full security, with his musket peacefully grounded by his side. 
Fenella made a sign to Peveril to move with silence and caution, 
and then showed him, to his surprise, from the window of the de- 
serted guard-room, a Iroat, for it was now high water, with four 
rowers lurking under the cliff on which the castle was built; and 
mad-e him further sensible, that he was to have access to it by a 
ladder of considerable height placed^at the window of the ruin. 

Julian was both displeased and alarmed by the security and care- 
lessness of the sentinels, who had suffered such preparations to be 
made without observation or alarm given; and he hesitated whether 
he should not call the officer of the guard, upbraid liim with negli- 
gence, and show him how easily Holm-Peel, in spite of its natural 
strength, and although reported impregnable, might be surprised 
by a few resolute men. Fenella seemed to guess his thoughts with 
that extreifie acuteness of observation which her deprivations had 
occasioned her acquiring. She laid one hand on his arm, and a 
finger of the other on her own lips, as if to enjoin forbearance; and 
Julian, knowing that she acted by the direct authority of the 
countess, obeyed her accordingly; but with the internal resolution 
to lose no time in communicating his sentiments to the earl, con- 
cerning the danger to which the castle was exposed on this point. 

* This curious legend, and many others, in which the Isle of Man is perhaps 
richer than even Ireland, Wales, or the Highlands of Scotland, will be found 
2n Note K. 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 193 

In tlie meantime, he descended the ladder with some precaution, 
for the steps were unequal, broken, wet, and slippery; and having 
placed himself in the stern of the boat, made a signal to the men to 
push off, and turned to take farewell of his guide. To his utter 
astonishment, Fenella ratliei slid down, than descended regularly, 
the perilous ladder, and, the boat being already pushed oif,.ma(lc 
a spring from the last step of it with incredible agilit}’-, and seated 
herself beside Peveril, ere he could express either remonstrance or 
surprise. Pie commanded the men once more to pull in to the pre- 
carious landing-place; and throwing into his countenance a part of 
the displeasure which he really felt, endeavored to make her com- 
prehend tlie necessity of returning to her mistress. Fenella folded 
her arms, and looked at him with a haughty smile, which com- 
pletely expressed the determination of her purpose. Peveril was 
extremely embarrassed ; he was afraid of offending tne countess, and 
interfering with her plan, by giving alarm, which otherwise he was 
much tempted to have done. On Fenella, it was evident, no species 
of argument which he could employ was likely to make the least 
impression; and the question remained, how, it she went on with 
him, he was to rid himself of so singular and inconvenient a com- 
panion, and provide, at the same time, sufficiently for her personal 
security. 

The boatmen brought the matter to a decision ; for, after lying on 
their oars for a minute, and whispering among themselves in Low. 
Dutch or German, they began to puli stoutly, and were soon at 
some distance from the castle. The possibility of the sentinels 
sending a musket-ball, or even a cannon-shot, after them, was one 
of the contingencies which gave Peveril momentary anxiety; but 
they left the fortress, as they must have approached it, unnoticed, 
or at least unchallenged — a carelessness on the part of the garrison, 
which, notwithstanding that the oars were muffled, and that (he 
men spoke little, and in whispers, argued, in Peverii’s opinion, 
great negligence on the part of the sentinels. When they were a 
little way from the castle, the men began to row briskly toward a 
small vessel which lay at some distance. Peveril had, in the mean- 
time, leisure to remark, that the boatmen spoke to each other doubt- 
fully, and bent anxious looks on Fenella, as if uncertain whether 
they had acted properly in bringing her off. After about a quarter 
of an hour’s rowing, they reached the little sloop, where Peveril 
was received by the skipper, or captain, on the quarter-deck, with 
an offer of spirits oiy refreshments. A "word or two among the 
seamen withdrew the captain from his hosj^itable cares, and he flew 
to the ship’s side, apparently to prevent h’enella from entering the 
vessel. The men and he talked eagerly in Dutch, looking anxiously 
at Fenella as they spoke together ; and Peveril hoped the result 
would be, that the poor young woman should be sent ashore again. 
But she baffled whatever opposition could be offered to her; and 
when the accommodation-ladder, as it is called, was withdrawn, she 
snatched the end of a rope, and climbed on board with the dexterity 
of a sailor, leaving them no means of preventing her entiance, save 
by actual violence, to wdiich apparently they did not choose to have 
recourse. Once on deck, she took the captain by the sleeve, and led 


T 


P'EVEKTL OF THE PEAK. 


194 

him to the head of the vessel, where they seemed to hold intercourse 
in a manner intelligible to both. 

Peveril soon forgot the presence of the mute, as he began to muse 
upon his own situation, and the probability that he was separated 
tor some considerable time from the object of his affections. 
“ Constancy, ” he repeated to himself — “ Constancy.” And, as if 
in coincidence with the theme of his reflections, he fixed his eyes on 
the polar star, which that night twinkled with more than ordinary 
brilliancy. Emblem of pure passion and steady purpose— the 
thoughts which arose as he viewed its clear and unchanging light, 
were disinterested and noble. To seek his country’s welfare, and 
secure the blessings of domestic peace — to discharge a bold and 
perilous duty to his friend and patron — to regard his passion for 
Alice Bridgenorth, as the loadstar which was to guide him to noble 
deeds — were the resolutions which thronged upon his mind, and 
which exalted his spirits to that state of romantic melancholy, which 
perhaps is ill exchanged even for feelings of joyful rapture. 

Pie was recalled from those contemplations by something which 
nestled itself softly and closely to his side — a woman’s sigh sounded 
so near him as to disturb his reverie; and as he turned his head, he 
saw Fenella seated beside him, with her eyes fixed on the same 
star which had just occupied his own. His first emotion was that 
of displeasure; but it was impossible to persevere in it toward a 
being so helpless in many respects, so interesting in others; whose 
large dark’ eyes were filled with dew, which glistened in the moon- 
light; and the source of whose emotions seemed to be in a partiality 
which might well claim indulgence, at least from him who was the 
object of it. At the same time, Julian resolved to seize the present 
opportunity for such expostulations with Fenella on the strangeness 
of her conduct as the poor maiden might be able to comprehend. 
He took her hand with great kindness, but at the same time with 
much gravity, pointed to the boat, and to the castle, whose towers 
and extended walls w'ere now scarce visible in the distance: and thus 
intjmated to her the necessity of her return to Holm-Peel. She 
looked down, and shook her head, as if negativing his proposal with 
obstinate decision. Julian renewed his expostulation by look and 
gesture— pointed to his own heart, to intimate the countess — and 
bent his brows, to show the displeasure which she must entertain. 
To all which the maiden only answered by her tears. 

At length, as if driven to explanation by his continued remon- 
strances, she suddenly seized him by the arm, to arrest his attention 
— cast her eyes hastily around, as it to see whether she was watched 
by any one — then drew the other hand, edgewise, across her slender 
throat — pointed fo the boat, and to the castle, and nodded. 

On this series of signs, Peveril could put no interpretation, except- 
ing that hewvas menaced with some personal danger, from which 
Fenella seemed to conceive that her presence was a protection. 
Whatever was her meaning, her purpose seemed unalterably 
adopted; at least it was plain lie had no power to shake it. He must 
therefore wait till the end of their short voyage, to disembarrass 
himself of his companion; and, in the meanwhile, acting on the 
idea of her having harbored a misplaced attachment to him, he 
thought he should best consult her interest, and his own character, 


,-PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


195 

in keeping at as great a distance from her as circumstances ad- 
mitted, With this purpose, he made the sign she used for going to 
sleep, by leaning his head on his palm; and having thus recom- 
mended to her to go to rest, he himself desired to be conducted to 
his berth. 

The captain readily showed him a hammock, in the after-cabin, 
into which he threw himself, to seek that repose which the exercise 
and agitation of the preceding day, as well as the lateness of the 
hour, made him now feel desirable. Bleep, deep and heavy, sunk 
down on him in a few minutes, but it did not endure long. In his 
sleep he was disturbed by female cries; and at length, as he thought, 
distinctly heard the voice of Alice Bridgenorth call on his name. 

He awoke, and, starting up to quit his bed, became sensible, from 
the motion of the vessel, and tbe swinging of the hammock, that his 
dream had deceievd him. He was still startled by its extreme 
vivacity and liveliness. “Julian Peveril, help! Julian Peveriil” 
The sounds still rung in his ears — the accents were those of Alice— 
and he could scarce persuade himself that his imagination had de- 
ceievd him. Could she be in the same vessel? The thought was not 
altogether inconsistent with her father’s character, and the intrigues 
in which he was engaged; but then, if so, to what peril was she ex- 
posed, that she invoked his name so loudly? 

Determined to make instant inquiry, he jumped out of his ham- 
mock, half -dressed as he was, and stumbling about the little cabin, 
which was as dark as pitch, at length, with considerable difficulty, 
reached the door. The door, however, he was altogether unable to 
open; and was obliged to call loudly to the watch upon deck. The 
skipper, or captain, as he was called, being the only person aboard 
who could speak English, answered to the summons, and replied to 
Peveril’s demand, what noise that was? — that a boat was going oft 
with the young woman— that she whimpered a little as she left tlie 
vessel — and “ dat vaas all.” 

This explanation satisfied Julian, who thought it probable that 
some degree of violence might have been absolutely necessary to ro- 
move Fenella; and although he rejoiced at not having witnessed it, 
he could not feel sorry that such had been employed. Her peilina- 
cious desire to continue on board, and the difficulty of freeing him- 
self, when he should come ashore, from so singular a companion, 
had given him a good deal of anxiety on the preceding night, which 
he now saw removed by this bold stroke of the captain. 

His dream was thus fully explained. Fancy had caught up the 
inarticulate and vehement cries with which Fenella was wont to ex- 
press resistance or displeasure — had coined them into language, and 
given them the accents of Alice Bridgenorth. Our imagination 
plays wilder tricks with us almost every night. 

The captain now undid the door, and appeared with a lantern; 
without the aid of which Peveril could scarce have regained his 
couch, where he now slumbered secure and sound, until day was 
tar advanced, and the invitation of the captain called him up to 
breakfast, 


V 


196 


PEVElilL or THE PEAK. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Now, what is this that haunts me like my shadow, 

Frisking and mumming like an elf in moonlight? 

Ben Jonson. 

Pevebil found the master of the vessel rather less rude than those 
in his station of life usually are, and received from him full satisfac- 
tion concerning the fate of Fenella, upon whom the captain bestowed 
a hearty curse, for obliging him to lay-to until he had sent his boat 
ashore, and had her back again. 

“ 1 hope,” said Peveril, ” no violence was necessary to reconcile 
her to go ashore? I trust she offered no foolish resistance?” 

‘‘Resist! mein Gott,” said the captain, ‘‘she did resist like a 
troop of horse — she did cry, you might hear her at Whitehaven— 
she did go up the rigging like a cal up a chimney; but dat vas ein 
trick of her old trade.” 

‘‘ What trade do you mean?” said Peveril. 

” Oh,” said the seaman, ‘‘ I vas know more about her than you, 
Meinhcer. I vas know that she vas a little, very little girl, and 
prentice to one seiltanzer, when my lady yonder had the good luck 
to buy her.” 

“ A seiltanzer!” said Peveril; “ what do you mean by that?” 

‘‘ 1 mean a rope-danzer, a mountebank, a Hans pickel-harring. I 
vas know Adrian Brackel veil— he sell de powders dat empty men’s 
stomach, and fill him’s own purse. Not know Adrian Brackel, mein 
Gott! 1 have smoked many a pound of tabak with him.” 

Peveril now remembered that Fenella had been brought into the 
family when he and the young earl were in England, and while the 
countess was absent on an expedition to the continent. AVhere the 
countess found her, she never communicated to the young men; but 
only intimated, that she had received her out of compassion, in order 
to relieve her from a situation of extreme distress. 

He hinted so much to the communicative seaman, who replied, 
“ that for distress he knew nocht’s on’t; only, that Adrian Brackel 
beat her when she would not dance on the rope, and starved her 
when she did, to prevent her growth.” The bargain between the 
countess and the mountebank, he said, he had made himself ; be- 
cause the countess had hired his brig upon her expedition to the 
continent. None else knew where she came from. The countess 
had seen her on a public stage at Ostend— compassionated her help- 
less situation, and the severe treatment she received— and had em- 
ployed him to purchase the poor creature from her master, and 
charged him with silence toward all her retinue.* “And so 1 do 
keep silence,” continued the faithful confidant, “ van 1 am in the 
havens of Man; but when I am on the broad seas, den my tongue is 
mine own, you know. Die foolish beoples in the island, they say 
she is a wechsel-balg— w'hat j^ou call a fairy-elf changeling. My 
faith, they do not never have seen ein wcchsel-balg; for I saw one 


♦ gee Note N. Sale of a Dancing Qirh 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


197 

myself at Cologne, and it was twice as big as yonder girl, and did 
break the poor people, with eating them up, like de great big cuckoo 
in the sparrow’s nest; but this Venella eat no more than other girls 
— it was no wechsel-balg in the world.” 

By a different train of reasoning, Julian had arrived at the same 
conclusion; in which, therefore, he heartily acquiesced. During the 
seaman’s prosing, he was reflecting within himself, how much of the 
singular flexibility of her limbs and movements the unfortunate girl 
must have derived from the discipline and instructions of Adrian 
Brackel; and also how far the germs of her willful and'capricious 
passions might have been sown during her wandering and advent- 
urous childhood. Aristocratic, also, as his education had been, 
these anecdotes respecting Fenella’s original situation and education, 
rather increased his pleasure at having shaken off her company; and 
yet he still felt desirous to know any further particulars which the 
seaman could communicate on the same subject. But he had al- 
ready told all he knew. Of her parents he knew nothing, except 
that “ her father must have been a damned hundsfoot, and a schelin, 
for selling his own flesh and blood to Adrian Brackel;” for by such 
a transaction had the mountebank become possessed of his pupil. 

This conversation tended to remove any passing doubts which 
might have crept on Peveril’s mind concerning the fidelity of the 
master of the vessel, who appeared from thence to have been a 
former acquaintance of the countess, and to have enjoyed some 
share of her confidence. The threatening motion used by FeneJla, 
he no longer considered as worthy of any notice, excepting as a new 
mark of the irritability of her temper. 

He amused himself with walking the deck, and musing on his 
past and future prospects, until his attention was forcibly arrested 
by the wind, which began to rise in gusts from the north-west, in a 
manner so unfavorable to the course they intended to hold, that the 
master, after many efforts to beat against it, declared his bark, which 
was by no means an excellent sea-boat, was unequal to making 
Whitehaven; and that he was compelled to make a fair wind of it, 
and run for Liverpool. To this course Peveril did not object. It 
saved him some land journey, in case he visited his father’s castle; 
and the countess’s commission would be discharged as effectually 
the one way as the other. 

The vcBScl was put, accoidingly, before the wind, and ran with 
great steadiness and velocity. The captain, notwithstanding, plead- 
ing some nautical hazards, chose to lie off, and did not attempt the 
mouth of the Mersey until morning, when Peveril had at length the 
satisfaction of being landed upon the quay of Liverpool, which even 
then showed symptoms of the commercial prosperity that has since 
been carried to such a height. 

The master, who was well acquainted with the port, pointed out 
to Julian a decent place of entertainment, chiefly frequented by sea 
faring people; for, although he had been in the town formerly, he 
did not think it proper to go any where at present where he might 
have been unnecessarily recognized. Here he took leave of the sea- 
man, after pressing upon him with difficulty a small present for his 
crew. As lor his passage, the captain declined any recompense 
whatever; and they parted upon the most civil terms. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


198 

The inn to which he was recommended was full of strangers, sea- 
men, and mercantile people, all intent upon their own affairs, and 
discussing them with noise and eagerness, peculiar to the business 
of 51 thriving. seaport. But although the general clamor of the 
public loom, in which the guests mixed with etrcli other, related 
chiefly to their own commercial dealings, there was a general theme 
mingling with them, which was alike common and interesting to 
all; so that, amidst disputes about freight, tonnage, demurrage, and 
such likCj were heard the empluitlc sounds of “ Deep, damnable, ac- 
cursed plot,” — “ Bloody Papist villains,” — “ The king in danger ” 
— “ The gallows too good for them,” and so forth. 

The fermentation excited in London had plainly reached even this 
remote seaport, and was received by the inhabitants with the pecul- 
iar stormy energy which invests men in their situation with the 
character of the winds and waves with which they are chiefly con- 
versant, The commercial and nautical interests of England were 
indeed p5irticularly anti-Catholic; although it is not, perhaps, easy to 
give any distinct reason why they should be so, since theological 
disputes in general could scarce be considered as interesting to them. 
But zeal, amongst the lower orders at least, is often in an inverse 
ratio to knowledge; and sailors were not probably the less earnest and 
devoted Protestants, that they did not understand the controversy 
between the churches. As for the merchants, the}^ were almost 
necessarily inimical to the gentry of Lancashire and Cheshire; many 
of w^hom still retained the faith of Rome, which was rendered ten 
times moie odious to the men of commerce, as the badge of their 
haughty aristocratic neighbors. 

From the little which Peveril heard of the sentiments of the peo- 
ple of Liverpool, he imagined he should act most prudently in leav- 
ing the place as soon as possible, and before any suspicion should 
arise of his having any connection with the party which appeared to 
have become so obnoxious. 

Ip order to accomplish his journey, it was first necessary that he 
should purchase a horse; and for this purpose he resolved to have 
recourse to the stables of a dealer well known at the time, and who 
dwelt in the outskirts of the place; and having obtained directions 
to his dwelling, he went thither to provide himself. 

doe Bridlesley’s stables exhibited a large choice of good horses; 
for that trade wtis in former days more active than at present. It 
was an ordinary thing for a stranger to buy a horse for the purpose 
of a single journey, and to sell him as well as he could, when he 
had reached the point of his destination; and hence there was a con- 
stant demand, and a corresponding supply; upon both of which, 
Bridlesley, and those of his trade, contrived, doubtless, to riiake hand- 
some profits, 

Julian, who was no despicable horse- jockey, selected tor his pur- 
I)Ose a strong well-made horse, about sixteen hands high, and had 
him led into the yard, to see whether his! paces corresponded with 
his appearance. As these also gave perfect satisfaction to the cus- 
tomer, it remained only to settle the price with Bridlesley ; who of 
course swore his customer had pitched upon the best horse ever 
darkened the stable-door since he had dealt that way; that no such 
horses were to be had nowadays, for that the mares were dead that 


PEVEKTL OF THE PEAK. 


im 


foaled them; and having named a corresponding price, the usual 
haggling commenced betwixt the seller and purchaser, for adjust- 
ment ot what the French dealers call le prix juste. 

The reader, if he be at all acquainted with this sort of traffic, well 
knows it is generally a keen encounter of wits, and attracts the notice 
ot all the idlers within hearing, who are usually very read}^ to otter 
their opinions, or their evidence. Amongst these, upon the present 
occasion, was a thin man, rather less than the ordinary size, and 
meanly dressed; but whose interference was in a confident tone,- and 
such as showed himself master of the subject on which he spoke. 
The price of the horse being settled to about fifteen pounds, wliicli 
was very high for the period, that of the saddle and bridle had next 
to be adjusted, and the thin mean -looking person before-mentioned 
found nearly as much to say on this subject as on the other. As his 
remarks had a conciliating and obliging tendency toward the stran- 
ger, Peveril concluded he was one of tliose idle persons, who, unable 
or unwilling to supply themselves with the means of indulgence at 
their own cost, do not scruple to deserve them at the hands of others, 
by a little officious complaisance; and considering that he might 
acquire some useful information from such a person, was just 
about to ofter him the courtesy ot a morning draught, when he 
observed he had suddenly left the yard. Pie had scairce remarked 
this circumstance, before a party ot customers entered the place, 
whose haughty assumption of importance claimed the instant at- 
tention of Bridlesley, and all his militia of grooms and stable-boys. 

“ Three good horses,” said the leader of the party, a tall bulky 
man, whose breath was drawn full and high, under a consciousness 
of fat and of importance—” three good and able-bodied horses, tor 
the service of the Commons of England,” 

Bridlesley said he had some horses which might serve the speaker 
himself at need; but that, to speak Christian truth, he had just sold 
the best in his stable to that gentleman present, who, doubtless, 
would give up the bargain if the horse was needed for the service of 
the state. 

” i’ou speak well, friend,” said the important personage; and ad- 
vancing to Julian, demanded, in a very haughty tone, the surrender 
of the purchase which he had just made. 

Peveril, with some difficulty, subdued the strong desire which he • 
felt to return a rOund refusal to so unreasonable a request, but fortu- 
nately recollecting that the situation in which he at present stood 
required, on his part, much circumspection, he replied simply, that 
upon showing him any warrant to seize upon horses tor the public 
service, he must of course submit to resign his purchase. 

The man, with an air of extreme dignity, pulled from his pocket, 
and thrust into Peveril’s hands, a warrant, subscribed by the Speaker 
ot (he House of Commons, empowering Charles Topham, their 
officer of the Black Rod, to pursue and seize upon the persons ot 
certain individuals named in the warrant; and of all other persons 
who are, or should be, accused by competent witnesses, of being 
accessory to, or favorers ot, the hellish and damnable Popish Plot, 
at present carried on within the bowels of the kingdom; and charg- 
ing all men, as they loved their allegiance, to render the said Charles 


200 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

Topham their readiest and most eftective assistance in execution of 
the duty intrusted to his care. 

On pemsinc; a document of such weighty import, Julian had no 
hesitation to give up his horse to this formidable functionary; whom 
somebody compared to a lion, which, as the House of Commons was 
pleased to maintain such an animal, they were under the necessity 
of providing for by frequent commitments; until “ Take Tiim^ Top- 
ham,''' became a proverb, and a formidable one, in the mouth of the 
public. 

The acquiescence of Peveril procured him some grace in the sight 
of the emissary; who, before selecting two horses for his attendants, 
gave permission to the stranger to purchase a gray horse, much in- 
ferior, indeed, to that which he had resigned, both in form arid in 
action, but very little lower in price, as I\lr. Bridlesley, immediately 
on learning the demand for horses upon the part of the Commons 
ot England, had passed a private resolution in his own mind, aug- 
menting the price of his whole stud, by an imposition of at least 
twenty per cent, ad mlorem. 

Peveril adjusted and paid the price with much less argument than 
on the former occasion; for to be plain with the reader, he had 
noticed in the warrant of Mr. Topham, the name c»f his father. Sir 
Geoftrey Peveril of Martindale Castle, engrossed at full length, as 
one of those subjected to arrest by that officer. 

When aware of this malerial fact, it became Julian’s business to 
leave Liverpool directly, and carry the alarm to Derbysliire, if, in- 
deed, Ml. Topham had not already executed his charge in that 
country, which he I bought unlikely, as it was probable they would 
coni men ce by securing those who lived nearest to the seaports. A 
word or two which he overheard, strengthened his hopes. 

“ And hark ye, friend,” said Mr. Topham; “ you will have the 
horses at the door of Mr. Shortell, the mercer, in two hours, as we 
shall refresh ourselves there with a cool tankard, and learn what 
folks live in the neighborhood that may be concerned in my way. 
And you will please to have that saddle padded, for 1 am told the 
Derbyshire roads are rough. And you, Captain Dangerfield, and 
Master Everett, you must put on your Protestant spectacles, and 
show me where there is the shadow of a ijriest, or ot a priest’s 
favorer; for 1 am come down with a broom in my cap to sweep this 
north country of such like cattle.” 

One ot the persons he thus addressed, who wore the garb of a 
broken-down citizen, only answered, “ Ay, truly, Master Topham, it 
is time to purge the garner.” 

The other, who had a formidable pair of whiskeis, a red nose, and 
a tarnished laced coat, together with a hat ot Pistol’s dimensions, 
w^as more loquacious. “ 1 take it on my damnation,” said this zeal- 
ous Protestant witness, “ that 1 will discover the marks of the beast 
on every one of them betwixt sixteen and seventy, as plainly as if 
they had crossed themselves with ink, instead ot holy water. Since 
we have a king willing to do justice, and a House of Commons to 
uphold prosecutions, why, damn me, the cause must not stand still 
lor lack ot evidence.” 

‘‘ Stick to that, noble captain,” answered the officer; but, 
prithee, reserve thy oaths tor the court of justice; it is but sheer 


PEVEEIL OP THE PEAK. 201 

waste to throw them away, as you do, in your ordinary conversa- 
tion.” 

^ “ Fear you nothing, Master Topham,” answereuDangerfield; ” it 
IS right to keep a man’s gifts in use; and were I altogether to re- 
nounce oaths in my private discourse, how should 1 know how to 
use one when 1 needed it? But you hear me use none of your Papist 
adjurations. 1 swear not by the Mass, or before George, or by any 
thing that belongs to idolatry; but such downright oaT;hs as may 
serve a poor Protestant gentleman, who would fain serve Heaven 
and the king.” 

Bravely spoken, most noble Pestus, ” said his yoke-fellow. ” But 
do not suppose, that although 1 am not in the habit of garnishing 
my words with oaths out of season, 1 shall be wanting, when called 
upon, to declare the height and the depth, the width and the length, 
of this hellish plot against the king and the Protestant faith.” 

Dizzy, and almost sick, with listening to the undisguised brutality 
of these fellows, Peveril, having with difficulty prevailed on Bridles- 
ley to settle his purchase, at length led forth his gray steed ; but 
was scarce out of the yard, when he heard the following alarming 
conversation pass, of which he seemed himself the object. 

” Who is that youth?” said the slow soft voice of the more precise 
of the two witnesses. ” Methinks 1 have seen him somewhere be- 
fore. Is he fiom these parts?” 

” Not that 1 know of,” said Bridlesley; who, like all the other 
inhabitants of England at the time, answered the interrogatories of 
these fellows with the deference which is paid in Spain to the ques- 
tions of an inquisitor. ” A stranger — entirely a stranger— never saw 
him before — a wild young colt, 1 warrant him; and knows a horse’s 
mouth as well as 1 do. ” 

‘‘ 1 begin to bethink me 1 saw such a face as his at the Jesuits’ 
consult, in the While Horse Tavern,” answered Everett. 

” And 1 think 1 recollect,” said Captain Dangerfield — 

‘‘ Come, come, master and captain,” saia the authoritative voice 
of Topham, “ we will have none of your recollections at present. 
We all know what these are likely to end in. But 1 will have you 
know, you are not to run till the leash is slipped. The young man 
is a well-looking lad, and gave up his horse handsomely for the 
service of the House of Commons. He knows how to behave him- 
self to his betters, I warrant you; and 1 scarce think he has enough 
in his purse to pay the fees. ” 

This speech concluded the dialogue, which Peveril, finding him- 
self so much concerned in the issue, thought it best to hear to an 
end. Now, when it ceased, to get out of the town unobserved, and 
take the nearest way to his father’s castle, seemed his wisest plan. 
He had settled his reckoning at the inn, and brought with him to 
Bridleslcy’s the small portmanteau which contained his few neces- 
saries, so that he had no occasion to return thither. He resolved, 
therefore, to ride some miles before he stopped, even for the purpose 
of feeding his horse; and being pretty well ac(iuaiiited with the 
country, he hoped to be able to^push forward to JMartindale CasUe 
sooner than the worshipful Master Topham; whose saddle was, in 
the first place, to be padded, and who, when mounted, would, in all 


“20^ ~ OF TffE peIk/ 

probability, ride with the precaution of those who require such 
security against the effects ot a hard trot. 

Under the influence of these feelings, .lulian pushed for Warring- 
ton, a place with which he was well acquainted; but, without halt- 
ing in the town, he crossed the Mersey, by the bridge built by an 
ancestor of his friend the Earl of Derby, and continued his route 
toward Dishley, on the borders of Derbyshire. He might have 
reached this lalter village easily, had his horse been fitter for a 
forced march ; but in the course ot the journey, he had occasion, 
more than once, to curse the official dignity of the person who had 
robbed him ot his better steed, while taking the best direction he 
could through a country with which he was only generally ac- 
quainted. 

At length, near Altringham, a halt became unavoidable; and 
Peveril had only to look tor some quiet and sequestered place of re- 
freshment. This presented itself in the form of a small cluster of 
cottages; the best of which united the characters of an alehouse and 
a mill, where the sign of the Cat (the landlord’s faithful ally in de- 
fense of his mealsacks), booted as high as Grimalkin in the fairy 
tale, and playing on the fiddle for the more grace, announced that 
John Whitecraft united the two honest occupations of landlord and 
miller; and, doubtless, took toll from the public in both capacities. 

Such a place promised a traveler, who journeyed incognito, safer, 
if not better accommodation, than he was like to meet with in more 
liequented inns; and at the door of the Cat and Piddle Julian halted 
accordingly. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

In these distracted times, when each man dreads 
The bloody sti-atagems of busy heads. 

Otway. 

At the door of the Cat and Fiddle, Julian received the usual at- 
tention paid to the customers of an inferior house of entertainment. 
His horse was carried by a ragged lad, who acted as hostler, into a 
paltry stable; wffiere, however, the nag was tolerably supplied with 
food and litter. 

Having seen the animal on which his comfort, perhaps his safety, 
depended, properly provided for, Peveril entered the kitchen, which 
indeed was also the parlor and hall ot the little hostelry, to try what 
refreshment he could obtain for himself. Much to his satisfaction, 
he found there was only one guest in the house besides himself; 
but he was less pleased when he found that he must either go with- 
out dinner, or sliaie with that single guest the only provisions 
wdiich chanced to be in the house, namely, a dish of trouts and eels, 
which their host, the miller, had brought in from his mill-stream. 

At the particular request of Julian, the landlady undertook to add 
a substantial dish of eggs and bacon, which perhaps she would not 
have undertaken for, had not the sharp eye of Peveril discovered 
the flitch hanging in its smoky retreat, when, as its presence could 
not be denied, the hostess was compelled to bring it forward as a 
part of her supplies. 

She was a buxom dame about thirty, whose comely and cheerful 


^■EVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


203 


countenance did honor to the clioice of the jolly miller, her lovin^ 
mate; and was now stationed under the shade of an old-fashioned 
huge projecting chimney, within which it was her province to 
“ work i’ the fire,” and provide, lor the wearied wayfaring man, the 
good things which were to send him rejoicing on his course. 
Although, at first, the honest woman seemed little disposed to give 
herself much additional trouble on Julian’s account, yet the good 
looks, handsome figure, and easy civility of her new guest, soon be- 
spoke the principal part of her attention; and while busy in his 
service, she regarded him, from time to time, with looks where 
something like pity mingled with complacency. The lich smoke of 
the rasher, and the eggs“with which it was flanked, already spread 
itself through the apartment; and the hissing of these savory viands 
bore, chorus to the -simmering of the pan, in which the fish were 
undergoing a slower decoction. Ihe table was covered with a clean 
huck-a-back napkin, and all was in preparation for the meal, which 
Julian began to expect with a good deal of impatience, wlien the 
companion who was destined to share it with him, entered the apart- 
ment. 

At the first glance, Julian recognized, to his surprise, the same 
indifferently-dressed, thin-looking person, who, during the first 
baigain which he had made with Bridlesley, had officiously inter- 
fered with his advice and opinion. Displeased at having the com- 
pany of any stranger forced upon him, Peveril was still less satisfied 
to find one who might make some claim of acquaintance with him, 
however slender, since the circumstances in which he stood com- 
pelled him to be as reserved as possible. He therefore turned his 
back upon his destined messmate, and pretended to amuse himself 
by looking out of the window, determined to avoid all intercourse 
until it should be inevitably forced upon him. 

In the meanwhile, the other stranger went straight up to the land- 
lady, where she toiled on household cares intent, and demarided of 
her, what she meant by preparing bacon and eggs, when he had 
positively chartred her to get nothing ready but the fish. 

The good woman, important as every cook in the discharge of her 
duty, deigned not for some time so much as to acknowledge that 
she heard the reproof of her guest; and when she did so, it was only 
to repel it in a magisterial arid authoritative tone. “ If he did not 
like bacon — (bacon from their own Imtch, well fed on peas and 
bran) — if he did not like bacon and eggs— (new-laid eggs, which she 
had brought in from ihe hen-roost with her own hands) — why so 
put case— it was the worse for his honor, and the better for those 
who did.” 

‘‘The better for those who like them?” answered the guest; 
** that is as much as to say 1 am to have a companion, good 
woman.” 

‘‘ Do not good woman me, sir,” replied the iniller’s wife, ” till I 
call you good man; and, 1 promise you, many would scruple to do 
that to one who does not love eggs and bacon of a Friday.” 

‘‘ Nay, my good lady,” said her guest, ‘‘ do not fix any miscon- 
struction upon me— I dare say the eggs and the bacon are excellent; 
only, they are rather a dish too heavy for my stomach.” 

‘‘ Ay, or your conscience perhaps, sir,” answered the hostess, 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


m 

“ And now, 1 bethink me, you must needs have your fish fried with 
oil, instead of the good drippings 1 was going to put to them. I 
would I could spell the meaning of all this noiv; but 1 warrant John 
Bigshall, the constable, could conjure something out of it.” 

There was a pause here; but Julian, somewhat alarmed at the 
tone which the conversation assumed, became interested in watch- 
ing the dumb show which succeeded. By bringing his head a little 
toward the left, but without turning round, or quitting the project- 
ing latticed window where he had taken his station, he could ob- 
serve that the stranger, secure, as he seemed to think himself, from 
observation, had sidled close up to the landlady, and, as he con- 
ceived, had put a piece of money into her hand. The altered tone of 
the miller’s moiety corresponded very much with this supposition. 

“ Nay, indeed, and forsooth,” she said, ” her house was Liberty- 
liall; and so should every publican’s be. What was it to her what 
gentlefolks ate or drank, providing they paid for it honestly? 
There were many honest genllemen, whose stomachs could not 
abide bacon, grease, or dripping, especially on a Friday; and what 
was that to her, or any one in her line, so gentlefolks paid honestly 
for the trouble? Only, she would say, that her bacon and eggs could 
not be mended betwixt this and Liverpool, and that she would live 
and die upon.” 

”1 shall hardly dispute it,” said the stranger; and turning 
toward Julian, he added, ” 1 wish this gentleman, who, 1 suppose 
is my trencher-companion, much joy of the dainties which I can- 
not assist him in consuming.” 

“ 1 assure 5^11, sir,” answered Pesreiil, who now felt himself com- 
pelled to turn about, and reply with civility, ” that it was with 
difficulty 1 could prevail on my landlady to add my cover to yours, 
though she seems now such a zealot for the consumption of eggs 
and bacon.” 

” 1 am zealous for nothing,” said the landlady, “ save that men 
would eat their victuals, and pay their score ; and if there be enough 
in one dish to serve two guests, 1 see little purpose in dressing them 
two; however, they are ready now, and done to a nicety. Here, 
Alice! Alice!” 

The sound of that well-known name made Julian start; but the 
Alice who replied to the call ill resembled the vision which his 
imagination connected with the accents, being a dowdy slipshod 
wench, the drudge of the low inn which afforded him shelter. She 
assisted her mistress m putting on the tabl^ the dishes which the 
hitter had prepared ; and a foaming jug of home-brewed ale being 
placed betwixt them, was warranted by Dame Whitecraft as excel- 
lent; ‘‘ for,” said she, ” we know by practice that too much water 
drowns the miller, and we spare it on our malt as we would in our 
milldam.” 

” 1 drink to your health in it, dame,” said the elder stranger; 
‘‘ and a cup of thanks for these excellent fish; and to the drowning 
of all unkindness between us.” 

” 1 thank you, sir,” said the dame, ” and wish you the like; but 
1 dare not pledge you, for our Gfafter says the ale is brewed too 
strong for women; so 1 only drink a glass of canary at a time, with 
a gossip, or any gentleman guest that is so minded.” 


i^SVEnlL OE THE PHAtt. 205 

“You shall drink one with me then, dame,” said Peveril, “so 
you will let me have a flagon.” 

“ That you shall, sir, and as good as ever was broached; but 1 
must to the mill, to get the key from the goodman. ” 

So saying, and tucking her clean gown through the pocket-holes, 
that her steps might be the more alert, and her dress escape dust, 
oft she tripped to the mill, which lay close adjoining. “ A dainty 
dame, and dangerous, is the miller’s wife,” said the stranger, look- 
ing at Peveril. “ Is not that old Chaucer’s phrase?” 

“1—1 believe so,” said Peveril, not mucu read in Chaucer, who 
was then even mors neglected than at present; and much surprised 
at a literary quotation from one of the mean appearance exhibited 
by the person before him. - 

“ Yes,” answered the stranger, “ Isee that you, like other young 
gentlemen of the time, are better acquainted with Cowley and Wal- 
ler than with the ‘ well of English undefiled.’ 1 cannot help difler- 
ing. There are touches of nature about the old bard ot Woodstock, 
that, to me, are worth all the turns of laborious wit in Cowley, and 
all the ornate and artificial simplicity of his courtly competitor. 
The description, for instance, of his country coquette — 

“ ‘ Wincing she was, as is a wanton colt. 

Sweet as a flower, and upright as a bolt.’ 

Then again, for pathos, where will you mend the dying scene of 
Arcite! 

“ ‘ Alas, my heartis queen 1 alas, my wife I 
Giver at once, and ender of my life. 

What is this world?— What axen men to have? 

Now with his love — now in his cold grave 
Alone, withoiiten other company.’ 

But 1 tire you, sir; and do injustice to the poet whom 1 remember 
but by halves.” 

“ On the contrary, sir,” replied Peveril, “ you make him more 
intelligible to me in your recitation, than 1 have found him when £ 
have tried to peruse him myself.” 

“You were only frightened by tlie antiquated spelling, and ‘ the 
letters black,’ ” said his compariion. “ It is many a scholar’s case, 
who mistakes a nut, which he could crack with a little exertion, for 
a bullet, which he must needs break his teeth on; but yours are bet- 
ter eniployed. Shall 1 offer you some ot this fish?” 

“ Kot so, sir,” replied Julian, willing to show himself a man of 
reading in his turn; “1 hold with old Caius, and profess to fear 
judgment, to fight where 1 cannot choose, and to eat no fish.” 

The stranger cast a startled looK around him at this observation, 
which Julian had thrown out, on purpose to ascertain, if possible, 
the quality of his companion, whose present language was so 
different from the character he had assumed at Bridlesley’s. Ilis 
countenance, too, although the features were of an ordinary, not to 
say mean cast, had that character of intelligence wliich education 
gives to the most homely face; and his manners were so easy and dis- 
embarrassed, as plainly showed a complete acquaintance with so- 
ciety, as well as the habit of mingling with it in the higher stages. 
The alarm which he had evidently shown at Peveril’s answer, was 


206 PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 

but momentary; for he almost instantly replied, with a smile, 
promise you, sir, that you are in no dangerous company ; for not- 
withstanding my fish dinner, 1 am much disposed to trifle with some 
of your savory mess, if you will indulge me so far.” 

!]Peveril accordingly re enforced the stranger’s trencher with what 
remained of the bacon and eggs, and saw him swallow a mouthful 
or two with apparent relish; b^ut presently after, he began to dally 
with his knife and fork, like one whose appetite was satia,ted; and 
then took a long draught of the black jack, and handed his platter 
to the large mastifi: dog, who, attracted by the smell of the dinner, 
had sat down before him for some time, licking his chaps, and fol- 
lowing with his eye every morsel which the guest raised to his head. 

“ Here, my poor fellow,” said he, “ thou hast had no fish, and 
needest this supernumerary trencher-load more than I do. 1 cannot 
withstand thy mute supplication any longer.” 

The dog answered these coui tesies by a civil shake of the tail, 
while he gobbled up what was assigned him by the stranger’s be- 
nevolence, in the greater haste, that he heard his mistress’s voice at 
the door. 

“ Here is the canary, gentlemen,” said the landlady; “ and the 
goodman has set off the mill, to come to wait on you himself. He 
always does so, when company drink wine.” 

” That he may come in for the host’s, that is, for the lion’s 
share,” said the stranger, looking at Peveril. 

” The shot is mine,” said Julian; ” and if mine host will share it, 
1 will willingly bestow another quart on him, and on you, sir. 1 
never break old customs.” 

These sounds caught the ear of Gaffer Whiteciaft, who had en- 
tered the room, a strapping specimen of his robust trade, prepared 
to play the civil, or the surly host, as his company should be accept- 
able or otherwise. At Julian’s invitation, he doffed his dusty bon- 
net-brushed from his sleeve the looser particles of his professional 
dust — and sitting down on the end of a bench, about a yard from 
the table, filled a glass of canary, and drank to his guests, and ” es- 
pecially to this noble gentleman,” indicating Peveril, who had or- 
dered the canary. 

Julian returned the courtesy by drinking his health, and asking 
what news were about in the country. 

‘‘ Nought, sir, 1 hears on nought, except this Plot, as they call it, 
that they are pursuing the Papishers about; but it brings water to 
my mill, as the saying is. Between expresses hurrying hither and 
thither, and guards and prisoners riding to and again, and the cus- 
tom of the neighbors, that come to speak over the news of an even- 
ing, nightly, 1 may say, instead of once a week, why the spigot is 
in use, gentlemen, and your land thrives; and then 1, serving as 
constable, and being a known Protestant, 1 have tapped, 1 may 
venture to say, it may be ten stands of ale extraordinary, besides a 
reasonable sale of wine for a country corner. Heaven make us 
thankful, and keep all good Protestants from Plot and Popery!” 

” 1 can easily conceive, my friend,” said Julian, ” that curiosity 
is a passion which runs naturally to the alehouse; and that anger, 
and jealousy, and fear, are all of them thirsty passions, and great 
consumers of home-brewed. But 1 am a perfect stranger in these 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


207 

parts; and 1 would willingly learn, from a sensible man like you, a 
little of this same Plot, of which men speak so much, and appear to 
know so little.” 

‘‘Learn a little of it? Why, it is the most horrible — the most 
damnable, bloodthirsty beast ot a Plot. But hold, hold, my good 
master; I hope, in the fir.st place, you believe there is a Plot? for, 
otherwise, the justice must have a woid with you, so sure as my 
name is John Whitecraft.” 

‘‘ It shall not need,” said Peveril; ‘‘ for 1 assure jmu, mine host, 
1 believe in the Plot as freely and fully as a man can believe in any- 
thing he cannot understand.” 

‘‘ God forbid that anybody should pretend to understand it,” said 
the implicit constable; ‘‘ for his worship the justice says it is a mile 
beyond him; and he be as deep as most of them. But men may be- 
lieve, though they do not understand; and that is what the Roman- 
ists say themselyes. But this 1 am sure of, it makes a rare stirring 
time for justices', and witnesses, and constables. f>o here’s to your 
health again, gentlemen, in a cup of neat canary.” 

‘‘Come, come, John Whitecraft,” said his wife, ‘‘do not you 
demean yourself by naming witnesses along with justices and con- 
stables. AH the world knows how they come by their money.” 

” Ay, but all the world knows that they do come by it, dame; 
and that is a great comfort. They rustle in their canonical silks, 
and swagger in their bufi: and scarlet, who but they? Ay, ay, the 
cursed fox thrives — and not so cursed neither. Is there not Dr. 
Titus Oates, the savior of the nation — does he not live at Whitehall, 
and eat off plate,- and have a pension of thousands a-year, for what 
1 knoiv ! and is he not to be Bishop of Litchfield, so soon as Dr. 
Doddrum dies?” 

‘‘ Then 1 hope Dr. Doddrum’s reverence will live these twenty 
years; and 1 dare say I am the first that ever wished such a wish,” 
said the hostess. ‘‘ I do not understand these doings, not 1; and if 
a hundred Jesuits came to hold a consult at my house, as they did 
at the White Horse Tavern, 1 should think it quite out of the line of 
business to bear witness against them, provided they drank well, 
and paid their score.” 

” Very true, dame,” said her elder guest; ‘‘ that is what 1 call 
keeping a good publican conscience; and so I will pay my score 
presently, and be jogging on my way.” 

Peveril, on his part, also demanded a reckoning, and discharged 
it so liberally, that the miller flourished his hat as he bowed, and the 
hostess courtesied down to the giound. 

The horses of both guests were brought forth ; and they mounted, 
in order to depait in company. The host and hostess stood in the 
doorway, to see them depart. The landlord proffered a stirrup-cup 
to the elder guest, while the landlady offered Peveril a glass from 
her own peculiar bottle. For this purpose, she mounted on the 
horse-block, with flask and glass in hand; so that it was easy for 
the departing guest, although on horseback, to return the courtesy 
in the most approved manner, namely, by throwing his arm over 
his landlady’s shoulder, and saluting her at parting. 

Dame Whitecraft did not decline this familiarity; for there is no 
room for traversing upon a horse-block, and the hands which might 


208 PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 

have served her for resistance, were occupied with glass and bottle 
—matters too precious to be thrown away in such a struggle. Ap- 
parently, however, she had something else in her head; for, as, after 
a brief aftectation of reluctance, she permitted Peveril’s face to ap- 
proach hers, she whispered in his ear, “Beware of trepans!” — an 
awful intimation, which, in those days of distrust, suspicion, and 
treachery, was as eftectual in interdicting free and social intercourse 
as the advertisement of “ man-traps and spiing-guns ” to protect an 
orchard. Pressing her hand, in intimation that he comprehended 
her hint, she shook his warmly in return, and bade God speed him. 
There was a cloud on John Whitecraft’s brow; nor did his final 
farewell sound halt so cordial as that which had been spoken 
within doors. But then Peveiil reflected, that the same guest is not 
always equally acceptable to landlord and landlady; and uncon- 
scious of having done anything to excite the miller’s displeasure, he 
pursued his journey without thinking further of the matter. 

Julian was a little surprised, and not altogether pleased, to find 
that his new acquaintance held the same road with him. He had 
many reasons for wishing to travel alone; and the hostess’s caution 
still rang in his ears. If this man, possessed of so much shrewdness 
as his countenance and conversation intimated, versatile, as he had 
occasion to remark, and disguised beneath his condition, should 
prove, as was likely, to be a concealed Jesuit or seminary-priest, 
traveling upon their great task of the conversion of England, and 
rooting out of the Northern heresy- -a more dangerous companion, 
for a person in his own circumstances, could hardly be imagined; 
since keeping society with him might seem to authorize whatever 
reports had been spread concerning the attachment of his family to 
the Catholic cause. At the same tirre, it was very difiicult, without 
actual rudeness, to shake off the company of one who seemed deter- 
mined, whether spoken to or not, to remain alongside of him. 

Peveril tried the experiment of riding slow; but his companion, 
determined not to drop him, slackened his pace, so as to keep close 
by him. Julian then spurred his horse to a full trot; and was soon 
satisfied that (he stranger, notwithstanding the meanness of his ap- 
pearance, was so much better mounted than himself, as to render 
vain any tho\igbts of out-riding him. He pulled up his horse to a 
more reasonable pace, therefore, in a sort of despair. Upon his 
doing so, his companion, who had been hitherto silent, observed 
that Peveril was not so well qualified to try speed upon the road, as 
he would have been had he abode by his first bargain of hoi’se-flesh 
that morning. 

Peveril assented dryly, but observed that the animal would serve 
his immediate purpose, though he feared it would render him in- 
different company for a person better mounted. 

“By no means,” answered his civil companion; “1 am one of 
those who have traveled so much as to be accustomed to make my 
journey at any rate of motion which may be most agreeable to my 
company.” 

Peveril made no reply to this polite intimation, being too sincere 
to tender the thanks which, in courtesy, were the proper answer. A 
second pause ensued, which was broken by Julian asking the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 209 

Stranger whether their roads were likely to lie long together in the 
same direction. 

“ 1 cannot tell,” said the stranger, smiling, “ unless I knew which 
way you were traveling.” 

“lam uncertain how tar 1 shall go to-night,” said Julian will- 
ingly misunderstanding the purport of the reply. 

“And so am 1,” replied the stranger; “but though my horse 
goes better than yours, 1 think it will be wise to spare him; and in 
case our road continues to lie the same way, we are likely to sup, as 
we have dined together.” 

Julian made no answer whatever to this round intimation, but 
continued to ride on, turning, in his own mind, whether it would 
not be wisest to come to a distinct understanding with his pertina- 
cious attendant, and to explain, in so many words, that it was his 
pleasure to travel alone. But, besides that the sort, of acquaintance 
which they had formed during dinner rendered him unwilling to 
be directly uncivil toward a person of gentleman-like manners, he 
had also to consider that he might very possibly be mistaken in this 
man’s character and purpose; in which case, the cynically refusing 
the society of a sound Protestant w^ould affoid as pregnant matter 
of suspicion, as traveling in company with a disguised Jesuit. 

After brief reflection, therefore, he resolved to endure the incum- 
brance of the stranger’s society, until a fair opportunity should oc- 
cur to rid himself of it; and, in the meantime, to act with as much 
caution as he possibly could, in any communication that might take 
place between them; for Dame Whitecraft’s parting caution still 
rang anxiously in his ears, and the consequences of his own arrest 
upon suspicion must deprive him of every opportunity of serving 
his father, or the countess, or Major Bridgenorth, upon whose inter- 
est, also, he had promised himself to keep an eye. 

While he revolved these things in his mind, they had journeyed 
several miles without speaking; and now entered upon a more waste 
country, and worse roads, than they had hitherto found, being in 
fact, approaching the more hilly district of Derbyshire. In traveling 
on a very stony and uneven lane, Julian’s horse repeatedly stum- 
bled; and had he not been supported by the rider's judicious use of 
the bride, must at length certainly have fallen under him. 

“ These are times which crave wary riding, sir,” said his compan- 
ion; “ and by your seat in the saddle, and your hand on the rein, 
you seem to understand it to be so.” 

“ 1 have been long a horseman, sir,” answered Peveril. 

“ And long a traveler, too, sir, 1 should suppose; since by the 
great caution you observe, you seem to think the human tongue re- 
quires a curb, as well as the horse’s jaws.” 

“ Wiser men than 1 have been of opinion,” answered Peveril, 
“ that it were a part of prudence to be silent, when men have little 
or nothinjr to say.” 

‘ ‘ 1 cannot approve of their opinion, ’ ’ answered the stranger. ‘ ‘ All 
knowledge is gained by communication, either with the dead, 
through books, or, more pleasingly, through the conversation of the 
living. The deaf and dumb, alone, are excluded from improvement; 
and surely their situation is not so enviable that we should imitate 
them.” 


210 


I^EVEBIL OF THE PEAK. 


At this illustration, which awakened a startling echo in Peveril’s 
bosom, the young man looked hard at his companion; but in the 
composed countenance, and calm blue eye, he read no consciousness 
of a further meaning than the words immediately and directly im- 
plied. He paused a moment, and then answered, “You seem to be 
a person, sir, of shrewd apprehension ; and I should have thought it 
might have occurred to you, that, in the present suspicious times, 
men may, without censure, avoid communication with strangers. 
You know not me; and to me you are totally unknown. There is 
not room for much discourse between us, without trespassing on the 
general topics of the day, which carry in them seeds of quarrel be- 
tween friends, much more bet wixt strangers. At any other time, tjie 
society of an intelligent companion would have been most acceptable 
upon my solitary ride; but at present—” 

“ At present!” said the other, interrupting him. “ You are like 
the old Romans, who held that hostis meant both a stranger and an 
enemy. 1 will therefore be no longer a stranger. My name is Gan- 
lesse — by profession 1 am a Roman Catholic priest — 1 am traveling 
here in dread of my life— and 1 am very glad to have you for a com- 
panion.” 

“ 1 thank you for the information with all my heart,” said Pev- 
eril; “ and to avail myself of it to the uttermost, 1 must beg of you 
to ride forward, or lag behind, or take a side-path, at your own pleas- 
ure; for as 1 am no Catholic, and travel upon business of high con- 
cernment, 1 am exposed both to risk and delay, and even to danger, 
by keeping such suspicious company. And so, Master Ganlesse, 
keep your own pace, and 1 will keep the contrary; fori beg leave to 
forbear your company. ” 

As Peveril spoke thus, he pulled up his horse, and made a full 
stop. 

The stranger burst out a-laughing. “ What!” he said, “ you for- 
bear my company lor a trifle of danger? Saint Anthony! How the 
warm blood of the Cavaliers is chilled in the young men of the pres- 
ent day! This young gallant, now, has a father, 1 warrant, who 
has endured as many adventures for hunting priests, as a knight- 
errant for distressed damsels.” 

‘ ‘ This raillery avails nothing, sir, ’ ’ said Peveril. ‘ ‘ 1 must request 
you will keep your own way. ” 

“ My way is yours,” said the pertinacious Master Ganlesse, as he 
called himself; “ and we will both travel the safer, that we journey 
in company. I have the receipt of fern-seed, man, and walk in 
visible. Besides, you would not have me quit you in this lane, 
where there is no turn to right or left?” 

Peveril moved on, desirous to avoid open violence — for which the 
indifferent tone of the traveler, indeed, afforded no apt pretext — yet 
highly disliking his company, and determined to take the first op- 
portunity to rid himself of it. 

The stranger proceeded at the same pace with him, keeping cau- 
tiously on his bridle-hand, as if to secure that advantage in case of a 
struggle. But his language did not intimate the least apprehension. 
“ You do me wrong,” he said to Peveril, “ and you equally wrong 
yourself. You are uncertain where to lodge to-night — trust to my 
guidance. Here is an ancient hall, within four miles, with an old 


PEVERTL OF THE PEAK* 211 

knightly Pantaloon tor its lord— an all-beruffed Dame Barbara tor 
the lady gay— a Jesuit, in a butler’s habit, to say grace— an old tale 
of Edgehill and Worcester fights to relish a cold venison pasty, and a 
flask of claret mantled with cobwebs— a bed for you in the priest’s 
hiding-hole— and, for aught 1 know, pretty Mistress Bettv, the dairy- 
maid, to make it ready." 

“ This has no charms tor me, sir,’’ said Peveril, who, in spite of 
himself, could not but be amused with the ready sketch which the 
stranger gave ot many an old mansion in Cheshire and Derbyshire, 
where the owners retained the ancient faith of Rome. 

“Well, 1 see 1 cannot charm you in this way,” continued his 
companion; 1 must strike another key. 1 am no longer Ganlesse, 
the seminary priest, but ” (changing his tone, and snuffling in the 
nose) “ Simon Canter, a poor preacher of the word, who travels this 
way to call sinners to repentance; and to strengthen, and to edify, 
and to fructify, among the scattered remnant who hold fast the 
truth. What say you to this, sir?” 

“ I admire your versatility, sir, and could be entertained with it at 
another time. At present sincerity is more in request.” 

“ Sincerity!” said the stranger;— “ a child’s whistle, with but two 
notes in it— yea, yea, and nay, nay. W^hy, man, the very Quakers 
have renounced it, and have’got in its stead a gallant recorder, called 
Hypocrisy, that is somewhat like Sincerity in form, hut of much 
greater compass, and combines the whole gamut. (Jome, be ruled 
— be a disciple of Simon Canter for the evening, and we will leave 
the old tumble down castle of the knight aforesaid, on the left hand, 
for a new brick-built mansion, erected by an eminent salt- boiler from 
Namptwich, who expects the said Simon to make a strong spiritual 
pickle tor the preservation of a soul somewhat corrupted by the evil 
communications of this wicked world. What say you? He has two 
daughters — brighter eyes never beamed under a pinched hood ; and 
for myself, 1 think there is more fire in those who live only to love 
and to devotion, than in your court beauties, wdiose hearts are run- 
ning on twenty follies besides. You know not the pleasure of being 
conscience- keeper to a pretty precisian, who in one breath repeals her 
foibles, and in the next confesses her passion. Perhaps, though, 
you may have known such in your day? Come, sir, it growls too 
dark to see your blushes; but I am suie they are burning on your 
cheek.” 

“You take great freedom, sir,” said Peveril, as they now ap- 
proached the end of the lane, where it opened on a broad common; 
“ and you seem rather to count more on my forbearance than you 
have room to do with safety. We are now nearly free of the lane 
which has made us companions for this last half hour. To avoid 
your further company, 1 will take the turn to the left, upon that 
common; and if you will follow me, it shall be at your peril. Ob- 
serve, 1 am well armed; and you will fight at odds.’' 

“ Not at odds,” returned the provoking stranger, “ while 1 have 
my brown jennet, with which 1 can ride round and around you at 
pleasure; and this text, of a handful in length ” (showing a pistol 
which he drew from his bosom), “ which discharges very convincing 
doctrine on the pressure of a forefinger, and is apt to equalize all 
odds, as you call them, of youth and strength. Let there be no strife 


PETEElL OE THE TEAK. 

between us, however — the moor lies before us — choose your path on 
it— 1 take the other.” 

“ 1 wish you good-night, sir,” said Peveril to the stranger. ” 1 
ask your forgiveness, it 1 have misconstrued you in any thing; but 
the times are perilous, and a man’s life may depend on the societ}’’ 
in which he travels. ’ ’ 

“True,” said the stranger; “but in your case, the danger is 
already undergone, and you should seek to counteract it. You have 
traveled in my company* long enough to devise a handsome branch 
of the Popish Plot. How will you look, when you see come forth, 
in comely folio form. The Narrative of Simon Canter, otherwise 
called Richard Ganlesse, concerning the horrid Popish Conspiracy 
for the Murder of the King, and Massacre of all Protestants, as given 
on oath to the Honorable House of Commons; setting forth, how 
far Julian Peveril, younger, of Martindale Castle, is concerned in 
carrying on the same — ” * 

“ How, sir? What mean you?” said Peveril, much .-startled. 

“Hay, sir,” replied his companion, “do not interrupt my’ title- 
page. How that Oates and Bedloe have drawn the great prizes, the 
subordinate discoverers get little but by the sale of their Harrative; 
and Janeway, Newman, Simmons, and every bookseller of them, 
will tell you that the title is half the narrative. Mine shall therefore 
set forth the various schemes you have communicated to me, of land- 
ing ten thousand soldiers from the Isle of Man upon the coast of 
Lancashire; and Marching into Wales, to join the ten thousand pil- 
grims who are to be shipped from Spain; and so completing the 
destruction of the Protestant religion, and of the devoted city of Lon- 
don. Truly, 1 think such a narrative, well spiced with a few hor- 
rors, and published cum privilegio parliamenti, might, though the 
market be somewhat overstocked, be still worth some twenty or 
thirty pieces.” 

“ You seem to know me, sir,” said Peveril; “ and if so, I think 1 
may fairly ask you your purpose in thus bearing me company, and 
the meaning of all this rhapsody. If it be mere banter, 1 can endure 
it within proper limit; although it is uncivil on the part of a 
stranger. It you have any further purpose, speak it out; 1 am not 
to be trifled with.” 

“Good, now,” said the stranger, laughing, “into what an un- 
profitable chafe you have put yourself ! An Italian /wcrwscifo, when 
he desires a parley with you, takes aim from behind a wall, with his 
long gun, and prefaces his conference with Posso tirare. So does 
your man-of-war fire a gun across the bows of a Hansmogan India- 
man, just to bring her to; and so do 1 show Master Julian Peveril 
that, it 1 were one of the honorable society of witnesses and inform- 
ers, with whom his imagination has associated me for these two 
hours past, he is as much within my danger now, as what he is ever 
likely to be.” Then, suddenly changing his tone to serious, which 
was in general ironical, he added, “ Young man, vvhenthe pestilence 
is diffused through the air of a city, it is in vain men would avoid 
the disease, by seeking solitude, and shunning the company of their 
fellow-sufferers.” 

* See Note P. Narratives of the Flot, 


tEVEElL OP THE PEAK. ^13 

** In what, then, consists their safety?” said Peveril, willing to 
asceitain, if possible, the drift of his companion’s purpose. 

“ In following the counsels of wise physicians.” Such was the 
stranger’s answer. 

‘‘ And as such,” said Peveril, “you ofter me your advice?” 

“ Pardon me, young man,” said the stiangei,' haughtily, “ 1 see 
no reason I should do so. 1 am not,” he added, in his former tone, 
“ your feed physician — 1 offer no advice — 1 only say it would be 
wise that you sought it.” 

” And from whom, or where, can 1 obtain it?” said Peveril. ‘‘ I 
wander in this country, like one in a dream ; so much a few months 
have changed it. Men who formerly occupied themselves with their 
own affairs are now swallowed up in matters of state policy; and 
those tremble under the apprehension of some strauge and sudden 
convulsion of empire, who were formerly only occupied by the fear 
of going to bed supperless. And to sum up the matter, I meet a 
stranger, apparently well acquainted with my name and concerns, 
who first attaches himself to me, whether I will or no; and then re- 
fuses me an explanation of his business, while lie menaces me with 
the strangest accusations.” 

” Had 1 meant such infamy,” said the stranger, “ believe me, 1 
had not given you the thread of my intrigue. But be wise, and 
come on with me. There is, liard by, a small inn, where, if you can 
take a stranger’s warrant for it, we shall sleep in perfect security.” 

“ Yet you yourself,” said Peveril, “but now were anxious to 
avoid observation; and in that case, how can you protect me?” 

” Pshaw! 1 did but silence tliat tattling landlady, in the way in 
which such people are most readily hushed; and for Topham, and 
his brace of night owls, they must hawk at other and lesser game 
than 1 should prove.” 

Peveril could not help admiring the easy and confident indiffer- 
ence with which the stranger seemed to assume a superiority to all 
the circumstances of danger around him; and after hastily consider- 
ing the matter with himself, came to the ¥esolution to keeiD company 
with him lor this night, at least; and to learn, if possible, who he 
really was, and to what party in the estate he was attached. The 
boldness and freedom of his talk seemed almost inconsistent with his 
following the perilous, though at that time the gainful, trade of an 
informer. No doubt such persons assumed every ai'ipearance which 
could insinuate them into the confidence of their destined victims; 
but Julian thought he discovered in this man’s manner a wild and 
reckless frankness, which he could not but connect wdth the idea of 
sincerity in the present case. He therefore answered, after a 
moment’s recollection, ” 1 embrace your proposal, sir; although, by 
doing so, lam reposing a sudden, and perhaps an unwary, confi- 
dence.” 

” And wdiat am 1, then, reposing in you?” said the stranger. ” Is 
not our confidence mutual?” 

‘‘No; much the contrary. 1 Know noihing of you whatever —you 
have named me: and, knowing me to be Julian PeveriJ, know you 
may tiavel with me in perfect security.” 

‘‘ The devil 1 do!” answered his companion. ‘‘1 travel in tho 
same security as with a lighted petard, which 1 may expect to ex:- 


PEYETITL OE THE PEAK. 


214 

plode every moment. Are you not the son of Peveril of the Peak, 
with whose name Prelacy and Popery are so closely allied, that no 
old woman of either sex in Derbyshire concludes her prayer without 
a petition to be freed from all three? And do you not come from 
the Popish Countess of Derby, brinf^ing', tor aught I know, a whole 
army of Manxmen in your pocket, with full complement of arms, 
ammunition, baggage, and a train of field artillery?*’ 

“ It is not very likely 1 should be so poorly mounted,” said Julian, 
laughing, ” if 1 had such a weight to carry. But lead on, sir. 1 
see 1 must wait for your confidence, till you think proper to confer 
it; for you are already so well acquainted with my aftairs, that I 
have nothing to offer you in exchange for it.” 

” Axiom, then,” said his companion; ** give your horse the spur, 
and raise the curb rein, lest he measure the ground with his nose, 
instead of his paces. We are not now more than a furlong or two 
from the place of entertainment.” 

They mended their pace accordingly, and soon arrived at the small 
solitary inn which the traveler had mentioned. When its light be- 
gan to twinkle before them, the stranger, as if recollecting something 
he had forgotten, said: ‘‘ By the way, you must have a name to pass 
by; for it may be ill traveling under your own, as the fellow who 
keeps this house is an old Cromwellian. What will you call your- 
self? My name is — for the present— Ganlesse.” 

” There is no occasion to assume a name at all,” answered Julian. 
” 1 do not incline to use a borrowed one, especially as 1 may meet 
with some one who knows my own.” 

” 1 will call you Julian, then,” said Master Ganlesse; ” for Pev- 
eril will smell, in the nostrils of my host, of idolatry, conspiracy, 
Smithfield fagots, fish on Fridays, the murder of Sir Edmondsbury 
Godfrey, and the fire of pui'gatory. ’ ’ 

As he spoke thus, they alighted under the great broad-branch ’d 
oak-tree, that served to canopy the ale-bench, which, at an earlier 
liour, had groaned under the weight of a frequent conclave of rustic 
politicians. Ganlesse, as he dismounted, whistled in a particularly 
shrill note, and was answered from within the house.* 


CHAPTER XXll. 

He was a fellow in a peasant’s garb ; 

Yet one could censure you a woodcock’s carving. 

Like any courtier at the ordinary. 

TUt Ordinary. 

The person who appeared at the door of the little inn to receive 
Ganlesse, as we mentioned in our last chapter, sung, as he came for- 
ward, this scrap of an old ballad — . 

“ Good even to you, Diccon; 

And how have you sped ? 

Bring you the bonny bride 
To banquet and bed?” 


* See Note Q. Richard Ganlesse, 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


‘^15 


To which Ganlesse answered, in the same tone and tune — 

“ Content thee, kind Robin ; 

He need little care, 

Who brings home a fat buck 
Instead of a hare.” 

“You have missed your blow, then?” said the other, in reply. 

“ 1, tell you 1 have not,” answered Ganlesse; “ but you will think 
ot naught but your own thriving occupation—May the plague that 
belongs to it stick to it! though it hath been the making oi thee.” 

“ A man must live, Diccon Ganlesse,” said the other. 

“ Well, well,” said Ganlesse, “ bid my triend welcome, for my 
sake. Hast thou got any supper?” 

Heeking like a sacrifice— Chaubert has done his best. That fel- 
low is a treasure! give him a farthing candle, and he will cook a 
good supper out of it. Come in, sir. My triend’s triend is wel- 
come, as we saj’’ in my country.” 

“ We must have our horses looked to first,” said Peveril, who be- 
^an to be considerably uncertain about the character ot his compan- 
ions—” that done, I am for you.” 

Ganlesse gave a second whistle ; a groom appeared, who took charge 
of both their horses, and they themselves entered the inn. 

The ordinary room ot a poor inn seemed to have undergone some 
alterations, to render it fit tor company ot a higher description. 
I’Pere were a beautet, a couch, and one or two other pieces ot furni- 
ture, ot a style inconsistent with the appearance of the place. The 
tablecloth, which was already laid, w^as of the finest damask; and 
the spoons, forks, etc., were of silver. Peveril looked at this appa- 
ratus with some surprise; and again turning his eyes attentively 
upon his traveling companion, Ganlesse, he could not help discover- 
ing (by the aid ot imagination, perhaps) that though insignificant in 
person, plain in features, and dressed like one in indigence, there 
lurked still about his person and manners that indefinable ease of 
manner wdiicli belongs only to men of birth and quality, or to those 
who are in the constant habit of frequenting the best company. His 
companion, whom he called Will Smith, although tall, and rather 
good-looking, besides being much better dressed, had not, never- 
theless, exactly the same ease of demeanor; and was obliged to make 
up tor the w^ant by an additional proportion of assurance. Who 
these two persons could be, Peveril could not attempt even to form 
a guess. There was nothing for it but to watch their manner and 
conversation. 

After speaking a moment in whispers. Smith said to his compan- 
ion, “ We must go look attei our nags for ten minutes, and allow 
Chaubert to do his office.” ' 

Will not he appear, and minister before us, then?” said Ganlesse, 

“ What! he? — he shift a trencher— he hand a cup? No, you for- 
get whom you speak of. Such an order were enough to make him 
fall on his own sword — he is already on the borders ot despair, be- 
cause no craw-fish are to be had.” 

“ Alack-a-day!” replied Ganlesse. “ Heaven forbid 1 should add 
to such a calamity! To stable, then, and see we how our steeds cat 
their provender, while ours is getting ready.” 

They adjourned to the stable accordingly, which, though a poor 


216 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

one, had been hastily supplied with whatever was necessary'for the 
accommodation ot four excellent horses; one of which, that from 
which Ganlesse was just dismounted, the groom we have mentioned 
was cleaning and dressing by the light of a huge wax candle. 

“ 1 am still so far Catholic,” said Ganlesse, laughing, as he saw 
that Peveril noticed this piece of extravagance. “ My horse is my 
saint, and 1 dedicate a candle to him.” 

“ Without asking so great a favor for mine, which 1 see standing 
behind yonder old hen-coop,” replied Peveril, ” 1 will at least re- 
lieve him of his saddle and bridle.” 

•‘Leave him to the lad of the inn,” said Smith; “he is not 
worthy ot any other person’s handling; and 1 promise you, if you 
slip a single buckle, you will so flavor of that stable duty, that you 
might as well eat roast-beef as ragouts, for any relish you will have 
of them.” 

” i love roast-beet as well as ragouts, at any time,” said Peveril, 
adjusting himself to a task which ev(?ry young man should know 
how to perform when need is; ” and my horse, though it be but a 
sorry jade, will champ better on hay and corn, than on an iron bit.” 

While he was unsaddling his horse, and shaking down some litter 
for the poor wearied animal, he heard Smith observe to Ganlesse — 
” By my faith, Dick, thou hast fallen into poor Slender’s blunder; 
missed Anne Page, and brought us a great lubberly postmaster's 
boy.” 

‘‘Hush! he will hear thee,” answered Ganlesse; “there are 
reasons for all things — it is well as it is. But, prithee, tell thy fel- 
low to help the youngster.” 

“What!” replied Smith, “ d’ye think 1 am mad? Ask Tom 
Beacon — Tom of Newmarket — Tom of ten thousand, to touch such 
a four-legged brute as that? Why, he would turn me away on the 
spot — discard me, i’faith. It was all he would do to take in hand 
3 ^our own, my good friend; and it j^ou consider him not the better, 
you are like to stand groom to him yourself to-morrow.” 

“ Well, Will,” answered Ganlesse, “ 1 will say that for thee, thou 
hast a set of the most useless, scoundrelly, insolent vermin about 
thee, that ever eat up a poor genUeman's revenues.” 

“Useless? 1 deny it,” replied Smith. “Every one of my fel- 
lows does something or other so exquisitely, that it were sin to make 
him do any thing else — it is your jacks-of-all trades who are masters 
of none. But hark to Chaubert’s signal. The coxcomb is 
twangling it on the lute, to the tune of Eveillez 'dous, belle endormie. 
Come, Master What-d’ye-call ” (addressing Peveril), “ get ye some 
water, and wash this filthy witness from your hand, as Betterton 
says in the play; for Chaubert’s cooker}'- is like B'riar Bacon’s Head 
— time is — time was — time will soon be no more.” 

So saying, and scarce allowing Julian lime to dip his hands in a 
bucket, and dry them on a horse cloth, he hurried him from the 
stable back to the supper chamber. 

Here all was prepared for^ieir meal, with an epicurean delicacy, 
which rather belonged to tUe saloon of a palace, than the cabin in 
which it was displayed. Four dishes of silver, with covers of the 
same metal, smoked on the table; ‘and three seats were placed for 
the company. Beside the lower end of the board was a small side- 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


217 

table, to answer the purpose of what is now called a dumb waiter; 
on which several flasks reared their tall, statelj'-, and swan-like 
crests, above glasses and rummers. Clean covers- were also placed 
within reach; and a small traveling-case of morocco, hooped with 
silver, displayed a number ot bottles, containing the most approved 
sauces that culinary ingenuity had then invented. 

Smith, who occupied the lower seat, and seemed to act as presi- 
dent of the feast, motioned the two travelers to take their places and 
begin. “ P would not stay a grace-time,” he said, to save a whole 
nation from perdition. We could bring no chauffettes with any con- 
venience; and even Chaubert is nothing, unless his dishes are tasted 
in the very moment of projection. Come, uncover, and let us see 
wliat he has done for us. Hum! — hal— ay — squab-pigeons — wild- 
fowl- -young chickens —venison cutlets — and a space in the center, 
wet, alas! by a gentle tear from Chaubert’s eye, where should have 
been the soup aiix ecrimsses. The zeal of that poor fellow is ill re- 
paid by his paltry ten louis per month.” 

“A mere trifle,” said Ganlesse; “but, like yourself. Will, he 
serves a generous master.” 

The repast now commenced; and Julian, though he had seen his 
young friend the Earl of Derby, and other gallants, affect a consid- 
erable degree of interest and skill in the science of the kitchen, and 
was not himself either an enemy or a stranger to the pleasures ot a 
good table, found that, on the present occasion, he was a mere 
novice. Both his companions, but Smith in especial, seemed to con- 
sider that they were now engaged in the only true and real business 
of life; and weighed all its minutiae with a proportional degree ot 
accuracy. To carve the morsel in the most delicate manner — and to 
apportion the proper seasoning with the accuracy of the chemist — to 
be aware, exactly, of the order in which one dish should succeed 
another, and to do plentiful justice to all — was a minuteness of a 
science to which Julian had hitherto been a stranger. Smith ac- 
cordingly treated him as a mere -novice in epicurism, cautioning 
him to eat his soup before the bouilli, and to forget the Manx cus- 
tom of bolting the boiled meat before the broth, as if Cutlar Mac- 
Culloch* and all his whingers were at the door. Peveril took the 
hint in good part, and the entertainment proceeded with animation. 

At length Ganlesse paused, and declared the supper exquisite. 
“But, my friend Smith,” he added, “are your wines curious? 
When you brought all that trash of plates and trumpery into Derby- 
shire, 1 hope you did not lea^^e us at the mercy of the strong ale of 
the shire, as thick and muddy as the squires who drink it?” 

“ Did 1 not know that you w'ere to meet me, Dick Ganlesse?” an- 
swered their host. “ And can you suspect me of such an omission? 
It is true, you must make champagne and claret serve, for my bur- 
gundy would not bear traveling. But if you have a fancy for 
sherry, or Vin de Cahors, 1 have a notion Chaubert and Tom Beacon 
have brought some for their own drink-ing.” 

“ Perhaps the gentlemen w'ould notca^to impart,” said Gaulesse. 

“Oh, fie!— anything in the way of civility,” replied Smith. 


* See Note R. Cutlar MacCulloch, 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


m 

“They are, in truth, the hest-naturecl lads alive, when treated re- 
spectfully; so that if you would preter— “ 

“By no means,” said Ganlesse — “a glass of champagne will 
serve in a scarcity of better.” 

“ The cork shall start obsequious to my thumb,” 

said Smith; and as he spoke, he untwisted the wire, and the cork 
struck the root of the cabin. Each guest took a large rummer glass 
of the sparkling beverage, which Peveril had judgment and experi- 
ence enough to pronounce exquisite. 

“ Give me your hand, sir,” said Smith; “it is the first word of 
sense you have spoken this evening.” 

“ Wisdom, sir,” replied Peveril, “ is like the best ware in the 
peddler’s pack, which he never produces till he knows his cus- 
tomer.” 

“ Sharp as mustard,” returned the bonmmnt; “ but be wise, most 
noble peddler, and take another rummer of this same flask, which 
you see 1 have held in oblique position for your service— not per- 
mitting it to retrograde to the perpendicular. Nay, take it oft be- 
fore the bubble bursts on the rim, and the zest is gone.” 

“You do me honor, sir,” said Peveiil, taking the second glass. 
“ I wish you a better office than that of my cup-bearer.” 

“ You cannot wish Will Smith one more congenial to his nature,” 
said Ganlesse. “ Others have a selfish delight in the objects of 
sense. Will thrives, and is happy by imparting them to his friends.” 

“ Better help men to pleasures than to pains, Master Ganlesse,” 
answered Smith, somewhat angrily. 

“ Nay, wrath thee not, Will,” said Ganlesse; “ and speak no 
words in haste, lest you may have cause to repent at leisure. Do 1 
blame thy social concern for the pleasures of others? Why, man, 
thou dost therein most philosophically multiply thine own. A man 
has but one throat, and can but eat, with his best efforts, some five 
or six times a-day; but thou dinest with every friend that cuts up a 
capon, and art quaffing winein other men’s gullets, from morning 
to night — et sic de ceteris.^’ 

“ Friend Ganlesse,” returned Smith, “ 1 prithee beware — thou 
knowest 1 can cut gullets as well as tickle them.” 

“ Ay, Will,” answered Ganlesse, carelessly; “ 1 think 1 have seen 
thee wave thy whinyard at the throat of a Hogan-Mogan — a Nether- 
landish weasand, which expanded only on thy natural and mortal 
objects of aversion — Dutch cheese, rye-bread, pickled herring, onions, 
and Geneva.” 

“For pity’s sake, forbear the description!” said Smith; “thy 
words overpower the perfumes, and flavor the apartment like a disii 
of salmagundi!” 

“But for an epiglottis like mine,” continued Ganlesse, “down 
which the most delicate morsels are washed by such claret as thou 
art now pouring out, thou couldst not, in thy bitterest mood, wish 
a worse fate than to be necklaced somewhat tight by a pair of white 
arms. ’ ’ 

“ By a tenpenny cord,” answered Smith; “ but not till you were 
dead; that thereafter you be presently emboweled, you being yet 
alive; that your head be then severed from your body, and your 

/ 


PEVEIilL OF THE PEAK. 219 

body divided into quarters, to be disposed of at his majesty’s pleas- 
ure. How like 3 " 0 u that, Master Richard Ganlesse?’^ 

“E’en as you like the tlioughts of dining on bran-bread and 
milk-porridge— an extremity which you trust never to be reduced 
to. But all this shall not prevent me from pledging you in a cup 
of sound claret. ” 

As the claret circulated, the glee of the company increased; and 
Smith, placing the dishes which had been made use of upon the 
side- table, stamped with his foot on the floor, and the table sinking 
down a trap, again rose, loaded with olives, sliced neat's tongue, 
caviare, and other provocatives for the circulation of the bottle. 

“ Why, "Will,” said Ganlesse, “ thou art a more complete mechan- 
ist than 1 suspected; thou hast brought thy scene- shifting inven- 
tions to Derbyshire in marvelously short time.” 

“A rope and pullies can be easily come by,” answered Will; 
“ and with a saw and a plane 1 can manage that business in halt a 
day. 1 love that knack of clean and secret conveyance— thou know- 
est it was the foundation of my fortunes. ” 

“ It may be the wreck of them too. Will,” replied his friend. 

“ True, Diccon,” answered Will; “ but, iluin vimmus, vivamus — 
that is my motto; and therewith 1 present you a brimmer to the 
health of the fair lady you wot of.” 

“ Let it come, Wfll,” replied his friend; and the flask circulated 
briskly from hand to hand. 

Julian did not think it prudent to seem a check on their festivity, 
as he hoped in its progress something might occur to enable him to 
judge of the character and purposes of his companions. But he 
watched them in vain. Their conversation was animated and lively, 
and often bore reference to the literature of the period, in which the 
elder seemed particularly well skilled. They also talked freely of 
the court, and of that numerous class of gallants who were then de- 
scribed as “ men of wit and pleasure about town;” and to which it 
seemed probable they themselves appertained. 

At length the universal topic of the Popish Plot was started; upon 
which Ganlesse and Smith seemed to entertain the most opposite 
opinions. Ganlesse, if he did not maintain the authority oi Oates 
in its utmost extent, contended, that at least it was confirmed in a 
great measure by the murder of Sir Edmoiidsbury Godfrey, and: the 
letters written by Coleman to the confessoi of the French king.* 

W’ith much more noise, and less power of reasoning. Will Smith 
hesitat(id not to ridicule and run down the whole discovery, as one 
of the wildest and most causeless alarms which had ever been 
sounded in the ears of a credulous public. “ 1 shall never forget,” 
he said, “ Sir Godfrey’s most original funeral. Two bouncing par- 
sons, W'ell armed with sword and pistol, mounted the pulpit, to 
secure the third fellow* wdio preached from being murdered in the 
face of the congregation. Three parsons in one pulpit— three suns 
in one hemisphere — no w'ondei men stood aghast at such a 
prodigy.” f 

“ What then, Will,” answ*ered his companion, “you are one of 

* See Note S, Coi'i-espoiidence of Coleman. 
t See Note T. £\t,neral Scene of Sir Edmondshury Godfrey, 


220 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


tliose who think the good knight murdered himself, in order to give 
credit to the Plot?” 

“ By my faith, not 1,” said the other; “ but some true blue Prot- 
estant riright do the job for him, in order to give the thing a better 
color. 1 will be judged by our silent friend, whether that be not 
the most feasible solution of the whole.” 

“1 pray you, pardon me, gentlemen,” said Julian; “1 am but 
just landed in England, and am a stranger to the particular circum- 
stances which have thrown the nation into such a ferment. It 
would be the highest degree of assurance in me to give my opinion 
betwixt gentlemen who argue the matter so ably; besides, to say 
truth, 1 confess weariness — your wine is more potent than 1 expect- 
ed, or 1 have drunk more of it than 1 meant to do.” 

” Nay, if an hour’s nap will refresh 3 'ou,” said the elder of the 
strangers, ” make no ceremony with us. Your bed — all we can 
offer as such — is that old-fashioned Dutch-built sofa, as the last 
new phrase calls it. We shall be early stirrers to-morrow morning.” 

‘‘ And that we inay be so,” said Smith, ” 1 propose that we do 
sit up all this night— 1 hate lying rough, and detest a pallet bed. 
So have at another flask, and the newest lampoon to help it out — 

“ ‘ Now a plague of their votes 
Upon Papists and Plots, 

And be d— d Doctor Oates. 

Tol de rol.’ ” 

“Nay, but our Puritanic host,” said Ganlesse. 

“1 have him in my pocket, man— his eyes, ears, nose, and 
tongue,” answered his boon companion, “ are all in my possession.” 

“ In that case, when you give him back his eyes and nose, 1 pray 
you keep his ears and tongue,” answered Ganlesse. “ Seeing and 
smelling are organs sufficient for such a knave— to hear and tell 
are things he should have no manner of pretensions to.” 

“ 1 grant jmu it were well done,” answered Smith; “ but it were 
a robbing of the hangman and the pillory; and 1 am an honest fel- 
low, who would give Dun* and the devil his due. So, 

“ ‘ All joy to great Caesar, 

Long life, love, and pleasure ; 

May the King live forever, 

’Tis no matter for us, boys.’ ” 

While this Bacchanalian scene proceeded, Julian had wrapt him- 
self closely in his cloak, and stretched himself on the couch which 
they had shown to him. He looked toward the table he had left — 
the tapers seemed to become hazy and dim as he gazed — he heard 
the sound of voices, but they ceased to convey an impression to his 
understanding; and in a few minutes, he was faster asleep than he 
had ever been in the whole course of his life. 


* Dun was the hangman of the day at Tyburn, He was successor of 
Gregory Brunden, who was by many believed to be the same who dropped the 
ax upon Charles I., though others were suspected of being the actual regicide, 


PEVEIilL OE THE PEAK. 


m 


CHAPTER XXlll. 

The Gordon then his bugle blew, 

And said, Awa, awa; 

The House of Rhodes is all on flame, 

I hauld it time to ga’. 

Old Ballad. 

When Julian awaked the next morning, all was still and vacant 
in the apartment. The rising sun, which shone through the half- 
closed shutters, showed some relics of the Jast night’s banquet, 
which his confused and throbbing head assured him had been car- 
ried into a debauch. 

Without being much of a boon companion, Julian, like other 
young men of the time, was not in the habit of shunning wine, 
which was then used in considerable quantities; and he could not 
help being surprised that the few cups he had drank over-night had 
produced on his frame the effects of excess. He rose up, adjusted 
his dress, and sought in the apartment for water to perform his 
morning ablutions, but without success. Wine there was on the 
table; and beside it one stool stood, and another lay, as if thrown 
down in the heedless riot of the evening. “ Surely,” he thought to 
himself, ” the wine must have been very powerful, which rendeied 
me insensible to the noise my companions must have made ere they 
finished their carouse. ” 

With momentary suspicion he examined his weapons, and the 
packet which he had received from the countess, and kept in a secret 
pf)cket of his upper coat, bound close about his person. All was 
safe; and the vcr}'" operation reminded him of the duties which lay 
before him. He left the apartment where they had supped, and 
went into another, wretched enough, where, in a truckle-bed, were 
stretched two bodies, covered with a rug, the heads belonging to 
which were amicably deposited upon the same truss of hay. The 
one was the black shock-head of the groom; the other, graced with 
a long thrum nightcap, showed a grizzled pate, and a grave carica- 
tured countenance, which the hook-nose and lantern-jaws pro- 
claimed to belong to the Gallic minister of good cheer, whose praises 
he had heard sung forth on the preceding evening. These worthies 
seemed to have slumbered in the arms of Bacchus as well as of IVlor- 
pheus, for there were broken flasks on the floor; and their deep snor- 
ing alone showed that they were alive. 

Bent upon resuming his journey, as duty and expedience alike 
dictated, Julian next descended the trap-stair, and essayed a door at 
the bottom of the steps. It was fastened within. Recalled — no an- 
swer was returned. It must be, he thought, the apartment of the 
revelers, now probably sleeping as soundly as their dependents still 
slumbered, and as he himself had done a few minutes before. 
Should he awake them? To what purpose? They were men with 
whom accident had involved him against his own will; and situated 
as lie was, he thought it wise to take the earliest opportunity of 
breaking oR from society, which was suspicious, and might be peril- 
ous. Ruminating thus, he essayed another door, which admitted 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


222 

him to a bedroom, where lay another harmonious slumberer. The 
mean utensils, pewter measures, empty cans and casks, with which 
this loom was lumbered, proclaimed it that ot the host, who slept 
surrounded by his professional implements ot hospitality and stock 
in trade. 

This aiscovery relieved Peveril from some delicate embarrassrnent 
which he had formerly entertained. He put upon the table a piece 
of money, sufficient, as he judged, to pay his share of the preceding 
night’s reckoning; not caring to be indebted for his entertainment 
to the strangers, whom he was leaving without the formality of an 
adieu. 

His conscience cleared of this gentleman-like scruple, Peveril pro- 
ceeded with a light heart, though somewhat a dizzy head, to the 
stable, which he easily recognized among a few other paltry oul- 
houses. His horse, refreshed with rest, and perhaps not unmindful 
of his services the evening before, neighed as his master entered the 
stable; and Peveril accepted the sound as an omen of a prosperous 
journey. He paid the augury with a sieveful of corn; and, while 
ills palfrey profited by his attention, walked into the fresh air to cool 
his heated blood, and consider what course he should pursue in order 
to reach the Castle of Martindale before sunset. His acquaintance 
with the country in general gave him confidence that he could not 
have greatly deviated from the nearest road; and with his horse in 
good condition, he conceived he might easily reach Martindale be- 
fore nightfall. 

Having adjusted his route in his mind, he retuined into the stable 
to prepare his steed tor the journey, and soon led Him into the ruin- 
ous courtyard of the inn, bridled, saddled, and ready to be mounted. 
But as Peveril’s hand was upon the mane, and his left foot in the 
stirrup, a hand touched his cloak, and the voice ot Ganlesse said, 
“ What, Master Peveril, is this your foreign breeding? or have you 
learned in France to take French leave ot your friends?” 

.lulian started like a guilty thing, although a moment’s reflection 
assured him that he was neither wrong nor in danger. “ 1 cared not 
to disturb you,” he said, ” although 1 did come as far as the door of 
your chamber. 1 supposed your friend and you nrfglit require, after 
our last night’s revel, rather sleep than ceremony. 1 feft my own 
bed> though a rough one, with more reluctance than usual; and as 
my occasions oblige me to be an early traveler, 1 thought it best to 
depart without leave-taking. 1 have left a token for mine host, on 
the table of his apartment.” 

‘‘ It was unnecessary,” said Ganlesse; “ the rascal is already over- 
paid. But are you not rather premature in your purpose of depart- 
ing? ' My mind tells me that Master Julian Peveril had better pro- 
ceed with me to London, than turn aside tor any purpose whatever. 
You may see already, that 1 am no ordinaiy person, but a master- 
spirit of the time. For the cuckoo 1 travel with, and whom 1 indulge 
in his prodigal follies, he also has his uses. But you are of a differ- 
ent cast; and 1 not only would serve you, but even wish you to be 
my own.” 

Julian gazed on this singular person while he spoke. We have 
already said his figure was mean and slight, with very ordinaiy and 
unmarked features, unless we were to distinguish the lightnings of 


PEVETUL OP THE PEAK. 


223 

a keen gray eye, wbicli corresponded, in iis caieless and prideful 
glance, with tlie haughty superiority which the stranger assumed in 
his conversation. It was not till after a momentary pause, that 
Julian replied, “ Can you wonder, sir, that in my circumstances— if 
they are indeed known to you so well as they seem— 1 should decline 
uimecessaiy confidence on the aftairs of moment which have called 
me hither, or refuse the company of a stranger, who assigns no' rea- 
son for desiring mine?” 

“Beit as you list, young man,” answered Ganlesse; “ only re- 
member hereafter , you had a fair oifer— it is not every one to wdiom 
1 would have made it. If we should meet hereafter, on other, and 
on worse terms, impute it to yourself and not to me.” 

” 1 understand not your threat,” answ'^ered Peveril, “ if a threat 
be indeed implied. 1 have done no evil— 1 feel no apprehension— 
and 1 cannot, in common sense, conceive wdry 1 should suffer for re- 
fusing my confidence to a stranger, wdio seems to require that 1 
should submit me blindfold to his guidance.” 

“ Farewell, then. Sir Julian of tlie Peak — that may soon be,” said 
the stranger, removing the hand which he had as yet left carelessly 
on the horse’s bridle. 

” How^ mean you by that phrase?” said Julian; ” and why apply 
such a title to me?” 

The stranger smiled, and only answ’^ered, “Here our conference 
ends. The way is before you. You will find it longer and rougher 
than that by which ! would have guided you.” 

So saying, Ganlesse turned his back and walked tow^ardthe house. 
On the threshold he turned about once more, and seeing that Peveril 
had not yet moved from the spot, he again smiled and beckoned to 
him; but Julian, recalled by that sign to recollection, spurred his 
horse and set forward on his journey. 

It was not long vre his local acquaintance with the country enabled 
him to regain the road to Martindale, from which he had diverged 
on the preceding evening for about two miles. But the roads, or 
rather the paths, of this wild country, so much satirized by their 
native poet. Cotton, were so complicated in some places, so difficult 
to be traced in others, and so unfit for hasty traveling in almost all, 
that, in spite of Julian’s utmost exertions, and though he made no 
longer delay upon the journey than was necessary to bait his horse 
at a small hamlet through which he passed at noon, it was nightfall 
ere he reached an eminence from which, an hour sooner, Ihe battle- 
ments of Martindale Castle would have been visible; and w^here, 
when they were hid in niglit, their situation was indicated by a light 
constantly maintained in a lofty tower, called the Warder's Turret; 
and which domestic beacon had acquired, through all the neighbor- 
hood, the name of Peveril’s Pole-star. 

This was regularly kindled at curfew toll, and supplied with as 
much wood and charcoal as maintained the light till sunrise; and at 
no period was the ceremonial omitted, saving during the space inter- 
vening between the death of a lord of the castle and his interment. 
When this last event liad taken place, the nightly beacon was rekin- 
dled with some ceremony, and continued till'fate called the successor 
to sleep with his fathers. It is not known from what circumstance 
the practice of maintaining this light originally sprung. Tradition 


224 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


spoke of it doubtfully. Some thought it was the signal of general 
hospitality, which, in ancient times, guided the wandering knight, 
or the weary pilgrim, to rest and refreshment. Others spoke of it 
as a “ love-lighted watchfire,” by which the provident anxiety of a 
former lady of Martindale guided her husband homeward through 
the terrors of a midnight storm. The less favorable construction of 
unfriendly neighbors of the dissenting persuasion ascribed the origin 
and continuance of this practice to the assuming pride of the family 
of Peveril, who thereby chose to intimate their ancient suzerainteoYnv 
the whole country, in the manner of the admiral, who carries the 
lantern in the poop for the guidance of the fleet. And in the former 
times, our old friend, Master SoLsgrace, dealt from the pulpit many 
a hard hit against Sir Geoffrey, as he that had raised nis horn, and 
set up his candlestick on high. Certain it is, that all the Peverils, 
from father to son, had been especially attentive to the maintenance 
of this custom, as something intimately connected witn the dignity 
of their family; and in the hands of Sir Geoffrey, the observance 
was not likely to be omitted. 

Accordingly, the polar-star of Peveril had continued to beam 
more or less brightly during all the vicissitudes of the Civil War; 
and glimmered, however faintly, during the subsequent period of 
Sir Geoffrey’s depression. But he was often heard to say, and some- 
times to swear, that while there was a perch of woodland left to the 
estate, the old beacon-grate should not lack replenishing. All this 
his son Julian well knew; and therefore it was with no ordinary 
feelings of surprise and anxiety, that, looking in the direction of the 
castle, he perceived that the light was not visible. He halted — 
rubbed his eyes — shifted his position— and endeavored, in vain, to 
persuade himself that he had mistaken the point from which the 
polar-star of his house was visible, or that some newly intervening 
obstacle, the growth of a plantation, perhaps, ortbe erection of some 
building, intercepted the light of the beacon. But a moment’s re- 
flection assured him, that from the high and tree situation which 
Martindale Castle bore in reference to the surrounding country, this 
could not have taken place; and the inference necessarily forced 
itself upon his mind, that Sir Geoffrey, his father, was either de- 
ceased, or that the family must have been disturbed by some strange 
calamity, under the pressure of which, their wonted custom and sol- 
emn usage had been neglected. 

Under the influence of undefinable apprehension, young 
Peveril now struck the spurs into his jaded steed, and forcing him 
down the broken and steep path, at a. pace which set safety at de- 
fiance, he arrived at the village of Martindale-Moultrassie, eagerly 
desirous to ascertain the cause of this ominous eclipse. The street, 
through which his tired horse paced slowly and reluctantly, was 
now deserted and empty; and scarcely a candle twinkled from a 
casement, except from the latticed window of the little inn, called 
the Peveril Arms, from which a broad light shone, and several 
voices were heard in rude festivity. 

Before the door of this inn, the jaded palfrey, guided by the in- 
stinct or experience which makes a liackney well acquainted with 
the outside of a house of entertainment, made so sudden and deter- 
mined a pause, that, notwithstanding his haste, the rider thought it 


PEVERTL OF THE PEAK. 


2 ^ 

best to dismount, expecting to be readily supplied with a fresh horse 
by Roger Raine, the landlord, the ancient dependent of his family. 
He also wished to relieve his anxiety, by inquiring concerning the 
state of things at the castle, when he was surprised to hear, bursting 
from the taprooin of the loyal old host, the well-known song of the 
Commonwealth time, which some puritanical wag had written in 
reprehension of the Cavaliers, and their dissolute" courses, and in 
which his father came in for a lash of the satirist. 

“ Ye thougrht in the world there was no power to tame ye, 

So you tippled and drabb’d till the saints overcame ye; 

* Forsooth,’ and ‘ Ne’er stir,’ sir, have vanquish’d ‘ G— d— n me,’ 

Which nobody can deny, 

“ There was bluff old Sir Geoffrey loved brandy and mum well. 

And to see a beer-glass turn’d over the thumb well ; 

But he fled like the wind before Fairfax and Cromwell, 

Which nobody can deny.” 

Some strange revolution, Julian was aware, must have taken 
place, both in the village and in the castle, ere these sounds of un- 
seemly insult could have been poured forth in the very inn which 
was decorated with the armorial bearings of his family; and not 
knowing how far it might be advisable to intrude on these unfrlciid- 
iy revelers, without the power of repelling or chastising their inso- 
lence, he led his horse to a back-door, which, as he recollected, com- 
municated with the landlord’s apartment, having determined to 
make private inquiry of him concerning the state of matters at the 
castle. He knocked repeatGilly, and as often called on Roger Raine 
with an earnest but stifled voice. At length a female voice replied, 
by the usual inquiry, “Who is there?” 

“ It is 1, Dame Raine — I, Julian Peveril — tell your husband to 
come to me presently.” 

“ Alack, and a .weil-a-day, Master Julian, if it be really you — you 
are to know my poor good man has gone where he can come to no 
one; but, doubtless, we shall go to him, as 3Iatthew Chamberlain 
says. ’ ’ 

“ He is dead, then?” said Julian. “lam extremely sorr}^-— ” 

“ Dead six months and more. Master Julian; and let me tell you, 
it is a long time for a lone woman, as Matt Chamberlain sa5'-s.” 

“ Well, do you or your chamberlain undo the door, 1 want a 
fresh horse; and 1 want to know how things are at the castle.” 

“The castle— lack-a-day!— Chamberlain — Matthew Chamberlain 
— Isay, Matt!” 

Abatt Chamberlain apparently was at no great distance, for lie 
presently answered her call ; and Peveril, as he stood close to the 
door, could hear them whispering to each other, and distinguish in 
a great measure what they said. And here it may be noticed, that 
Dame Raine, accustomed to submit to the authority of old Roger, 
who vindicated as well the husband’s domestic prerogative as that 
of the monarch in the state, had, when left a buxom widow, been 
so far incommoded by the exercise of her newly acquired independ- 
ence, that she had recourse, upon all occasions, to the advice of 
Alatt Chamberlain; and as Alatt begm no longer to go slipshod, and 
in a red nightcap, but wore Spanish shoes, and a high-crowned 
beaver (at least of a Sunday), and moreover was called Master Alat- 
S 


226 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


thew by his fellow-servants, the neighbors in the village argued a 
speedy change of the name on the sign post; nay, perhaps, of the 
very sign itself, for Matthew was a bit of a Puritan, and nofriend to 
Peverii of the Peak. 

“Now counsel me, an you be a man. Matt Chamberlain.” said 
"Widow Raiue; “ for never stir, if here be not Master Julian’s own 
self, and he wants a horse, and what not, and all as if things were as 
they wont to be.” 

“ Why, dame, an ye will walk by my counsel,” said Chamber- 
lain, “ e’en shake him off — let him be jogging wdiile his boots are 
green. This is no world for folks to scald their fingers in other 
folks’ broth.” 

“ And that is w-ell spoken, truly,” answTred Dame Raine; “ but 
then, look you. Matt, we have eaten their bread, and, as my poor 
goodman used to say — ” 

“ Nay, nay, dame, they that walk by the counsel of the dead, 
shall have none ot the living; and so you may do as 3^011 list; but if 
3mu will walk b3" mine, drop latch, and draw bolt, and bid him seek 
quarters further— that is my counsel,” 

“ 1 desire nothing of you, sirrah,” said Peverii, “ save but to 
know how Sir Geoffie}^ and his lady do 5 *” 

“ Lack-a-da}'! — lack-a-day!” in a tone of sympathy, was the only 
answer he received from the landlady; and the conversation betwixt 
h{‘r and her chamberlain was resumed, but in a tone too low to be 
overheard. 

At length Matt Chamberlain spoke aloud, and with a tone of 
authority: “W'e undo no doors, at this time of night, for it is 
against the justices’ orders, and might cost us our license; and for 
the castle, tlie road up to it lies before you, and 1 think 3^ou know 
it as well as we do.” 

“ And I know you,” said Peverii, remounting his w^earied horse, 
“ for an ungrateful churl, whom, on the first opportunity, 1 will as- 
suredly cudgel to a mumm}^” 

To this menace Matthew made no repl}", and Peverii presentl}” 
heard him leave the apartment, after a few^ earnest w’ords betwixt 
him and his mistress. 

Imoatient at this delay, and at the evil omen implied in these peo- 
ple’s conversation and deportment, Peverii, after some vain spurrrng 
of his horse, which positively refused to move a step further, dis° 
mounted once more, and w^as about to pursue his journey on foot, 
notwithstanding the extreme disadvantage under which the high 
riding-boots of the period laid those who attempted to walk wdth 
such incumbrances, when he was stopped by a gentle call from the 
window. 

Her counselor w^as no sooner gone, than the good- nature and 
habitual veneration of the dame for the house of Peverii, and per- 
haps some fear lor her counselor’s bones, induced her to open the 
casement, and cry, but in a low and timid tone, “ Hist! hist! Mas- 
ter Julian — be 3’'ou goneV” 

“ Not yet, dame,” said Julian; “ though it seems my stay is un- 
welcome.” 

“ Nay, but, good young master, it is b('cause men counsel so differ- 
ently; for here was my poor old Roger Raine wmuld have thought 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 227 

tlie chimney corner too cold for you; and here is Matt Chamberlain 
thinks the cold court-yard is warm enough. ’ 

“Never mind that, dame,’’ said Julian; “do but only tell mo 
what has happened at Martindale Castle? 1 see the beacon is ex- 
tinguished.” 

“ Is it, in troth?— ay, like enough— then good Sir Geoffrey has 
gone to Pleaven with my old Roger Raine!” 

“ Sacred Heaven!” exclaimed Peveril; “ when was mv father 
taken ill?” 

“ Never as 1 knows of,” said the dame; “ but, about three hours 
since, arrived a party at the castle, with buff -coats and bandoleers, 
and one of the parliament’s folks, like in Oliver's time. My old 
Roger Raine would have shut the gates of the inn against them, but 
he is in the churchyard, and Matt says it is against law; and so tliey 
came in and refreshed men and horses and sent for Master Bridge- 
north, that is at Moultrassie Hall even now; and so they went up to 
the castle, and there was a fray, it is like, as the old kniaht was no 
man to take napping, as poor Roger Raine used to say. Always the 
officers had the best on’t; and reason there is, since they had the 
law of their side, as our Matthew says. But since the pole-star of 
the castle is out, as your honor saj’-s, why, doubtless, the old gentle- 
man is dead.” 

“ Gracious Heaven ! Dear Dame, for love or gold, let me have a 
horse to make for the castle!” 

“ The, castle?” said the dame; “the Roundheads, as my poor 
Roger called them, will kill you as they have killed 3 mur father! 
Better creep into the woodhouse, and I will send Bett with a blanket 
and some supper — or sta.y — my old Dobbin stands in the little stable 
beside the hencoop — e’en take him, and make the best of your way 
out of the country, for there is no safety here for ^mu. Hear what 
songs some of them are singing at the tap! — so take Dobbin, and do 
not forget to leave your own horse instead. ’ ’ 

Peveril waited to hear no further, only, that just as he turned to 
go off to the stable, the compassionate female was heard to exclaim, 
— “ O Lord! what will Matthew Chamberlain say?” but instantly 
added, “ Let him saj^ wdiat he will, 1 may dispose of what’s my 
own.” 

With the haste of a double-feed hostler did Julian exchange the 
equipments of his jaded brute with poor Dobbin, who stood quietly 
tugging at his rackful of hay, without dreaming ot the business 
which was that night destined for him. Notwithstanding the dark- 
ness of the place, Julian succeeded marvelously quickly in preparing 
for his journey; and leaving his own horse to find its way to Dob- 
bin’s rack by instinct, he leaped upon liis new acquisition, and 
spurred him sharply against the hill, which rises steeply from the 
village to the castle. Dobbin, little accustomed to such exertions, 
snorted, panted, and trotted as briskly as he could, until at length 
he brought his rider before the entrance-gate of his fatlier’s ancient 
seat. 

Tlie moon was mow rising, but the irorfal was hidden fiom i(s 
beams, being situated, as we have mentioned elsewliere, in a deep 
recess betwixt two large flanking towers. Peveril dismounted, 
turned his horse loose^ and advanced to the gate, which, contrary to 


228 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


his expectation, lie found open. He entered the lar^e court-yard; 
and could then perceive that lights yet twinkled in the lower part of 
the building, although he had not before observed them, owing to 
the height of the outward walls. The main door, or great hall- 
gate, as it was called, was, since the partially decayed state of the 
family, seldom opened, save on occasions of particular ceremony. 
A smaller postern door served the purpose of ordinary entrance; and 
to that Julian now repaired. This also was open — a circumstance 
which would of itself have alarmed him, had he not already had so 
many causes for apprehension. His heart sunk within him as he 
turned to the left, through a small outward hall, toward the great 
parlor, which the family usually occupied as a sitting apartment; 
and his alarm became still greater, when, on a nearer approach, he 
heard proceeding from thence the murmur of several voices. He 
threw the door of the apartment wide; and the sight which was thus 
displayed, warranted all the evil bodings which he had entertained. 

In front of him stood the old kniglTt, whose arms were strongly 
securevi, over the elbows, by a leathern belt drawn tight round 
them, and made fast behind; two ruffianly-looking men, apparently 
his guards, had hold of his doublet. The" scabbardless sword which 
lay on the floor, and the empty sheath which hung Sir Geoffrey’s 
side, showed the stout old cavalier had not been reduced to this 
state of bondage without an attempt at resistance. Two or three 
persons, having their backs turned toward Julian, sat round a table, 
and appeared engaged in writing — the voices which he had heard 
were theirs, as they murmured to each oilier. Lady Peveril — tlie 
emblem of death, so pallid was her countenance — stood at the dis- 
tance of a yard or two from her husband, upon whom her eyes were 
fixed with an intenseness of gaze, like that of one who looks her last 
on the object which she loves the best. She was the first to per- 
ceive Julian; and she exclaimed, “Merciful Heaven!— -my son! — 
the misery of our house is complete!” 

“ My son!” echoed Sir Geoffrey, starting from the sullen state of 
dejection, and swearing a deep oath — “ thou art come in the right 
time, Julian. Strike me one good blow — cleave me that traitorous 
thief from the crown to the brisket! and that done, 1 care not what 
comes next.” 

The sight of his father’s situation made the son forget the in- 
equality of the contest which he was about to provoke. 

“ Villains,” he said, “ unhand him!” and i-ushing on the guards 
with his drawn sword, compelled them to let go Sir Geoffrey, and 
stand on their own defense. 

Sir Geoffrey, thus far liberated, shouted to his lady., “ Undo the 
belt, dame, and we will have three good blow's for it yet —they must 
fight W’^ell that beat both father and son.” 

But one of those men who had started up from the writing-table 
when the fray commenced, prevented Lady Peveril from rendering 
her husband this assistance; while another easily mastered the ham- 
pered knight, though not without receiving several severe kicks 
from his heavy boots— his condition permitting him no other mode of 
defense. A third, who saw that Julian,- young, active, and animated 
with the fury of a son who fights for his parents, was compelling the 
two guards to give ground, seized on his collar,, and attempted to 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


229 

master his sword. Suddenly dropping that weapon, and snatching 
one of his pistols, Julian fired it at the head of the person by whom 
he was thus assailed. He did not drop, but, staggering back as if 
he had received a severe blow, showed Peveril, as he sunk into a 
chair, the features of old Bridgenorth, blackened with the explosion, 
which had even set fire to a part of his gray hair. A cry of aston- 
ishment escaped from Julian; and in the alarm and horror of the 
moment, he was easily secured and disarmed by those with whom 
he had been at first engaged. 

“ Heed it not, Julian,” said Sir Geoffrey; ” heed it not, my brave 
boy — thatshot has balanced all accounts! — but how — what the devil — 
he lives! Was your pistol loaded with chaff? or has the foul fiend 
given him proof against lead?” 

There was some reason for Sir Geoffrey’s surprise, since, as he 
spoke, Major Bridgenorth collected himself— sat up in the chair as 
one who recovers from a stunning blow — then rose, and wiping with 
his handkerchief the marks of the explosion from his face, he ap- 
proached Julian, and said, in the same cold unaltered tone in which 
he- usually expressed himself, ‘‘Young man, you have reason to 
bless God, who has this day saved you from the commission of a 
great crime.” 

” Bless the devil, ye crop-eared knave!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey; 
” for nothing less than the father of all fanatics saved your brains 
from being blown about like the rinsings ot Beelzebub’s porridge- 
pot!” 

“Sir Geoffrey,” said Major Bridgenorth, “I have already told 
you, that with you 1 will hold no argument; for to you 1 am not 
accountable for anj’’ of my actions.” 

“ Master Bridgenorth,” said the lady, making a strong effort to 
speak, and to speak with calmness, “ whatever revenge your Chris- 
tian state of conscience may permit you to take on liiy husband— 1 
— I, who have some right to experience compassion at your hand, 
for most sincerely did 1 compassionate jmu wdien the hand of Heaven 
was heavy on you — 1 implore you not to involve my son in our com- 
mon ruin! Let the destruction of the father and mother, with the 
ruin of our ancient house, satisfy your resentment for any wTong 
which you have ever received at my husband’s hand.” 

“ Hold your peace, housewife,” said the knight; “ you speak like 
a fool, and meddle with what concerns you not. Wrong at my 
hand? The cowardly knave has ever had but even too much right. 
Had 1 cudgeled the cur soundly when he first bayed at me, the 
cowardly mongrel had been now crouching at my feet, instead of 
flying at my throat. But if 1 get through this action, as 1 have got 
through worse weather, 1 will pay off old scores, as far as tough 
crab-tree and cold iron will bear me out.” 

“ Sir Geoffrey,” rejilied Bridgenorth, “ if the birth you boast of 
has made you blind to belter principles, it might have at least taught 
you civilit}^ What do you complain ot? 1 am a magistrate; and 1 
execute a warrant, addressed to me by the first authority in the state. 

1 am a creditor also ot yours; and the law arms me with poweis 
to recover my own property from the hands of an improvident 
debtor.” 

“ You a magistrate!” said the knight; “ much such a magistrate 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


230 

as Noll was a monarch. Your heart is up, 1 warrant, because you _ 
have the king’s pardon; and are replaced on the bench, forsooth, to , 
persecute the poor Papist. There was never turmoil in the state, 
but knaves had their vantage Dy it — never pot boiled, but the scum 
was cast uppermost.” 

‘‘ For God’s sake, my deafest husband,” said Lady Peveril, 

” cease this wild talk! It can but incense Master Biidgenorth, who > 
might otherwise consider that in common charity — ” 

“ Incense him!” said Sir Geoffrey, impatiently interrupting her; 

” God’s-death, madam, you will drive me mad! Have you lived so '" 
long in this world, and yet expect consideration and charity from - 
an old starved wolf like that? And if he had it, do you think that 
X, or 3mu, madam, as my wife, are subjects for his charity? Julian, 
my poor fellow, l am sorry thou hast come so unluckily, since thy 
petronel was not better loaded— but thy credit is lost forever as a 
marksman.” 

This angry colloquy passed so rapidly on all sides, that Julian, 
scarce recovered from the extremity of astonishment with which he 
was overwhelmed at finding himself suddenly plunged inlo a situa- ; 
tion of such extremity, had no time to consider in what wuiy he 
could most effectually act for the succor of his parents. To speak 
Bridgenorth fair, seemed the more prudent course; but to this his • 
pride could hardly stoop; yet he forced himself to say, with as ; 
much calmness as he could assume, ” Master Bridgenorth, since you 
act as a magisirate, 1 desire to be treated according to the laws of 
England, and demand to know of what we are accused, and by i 
whose authority we are arrested?” ^ 

” Here is another howlet tor ye!” exclaimed the impetuous old 
knight; ” his mother speaks to a Puritan of charity; and thou must 
talk of law to a rouudheaded rebel, with a wannion to you! What 
warrant hath he, think ye, beyond the parliament’s or the devil's?” 

Who speaks of the parliament?” said a person entering, whom 
Peveril recognized as the official person whom he had before seen at 
the horse-dealer’s, and who now bustled in with all the conscious 
dignity of plenary authority — ” Who talks of tlie parliament?” he - 
exclaimed. ” 1 promise you, enough has been found in this house to . 
convict twenty plotters. Here be arms, and that good store. Bring vj; 
them in, captain.” ^ 

” The very same,” exclaimed the captain, approaching, “ which J 
1 mention in my printed Narrative of Information, lodged before the ^ 
Honorable House of Commons; they were commissioned from old 
Vander Huys of Rotterdam, by orders of Don John of Austria, for 
the service of the Jesuits.” >■ 

“Now, by this light,” said Sir Geoffrey, ‘‘they are the pikes, 
musketoons, and pistols, that have been hidden in the garret ever 
since Naseby light!” X’ 

” And here,” said the captain’s j^oke-fellow, Everett, “ are proper 
priest’s trappings— antiphoners, and missals, and copes, 1 warrant 
you— ay, and proper pictures, too, for Papists to mutter and bow ^ 
over.” 

” Now plague on thy snuffling whine,” said Sir Geoffrey; ” here*, 
is a rascal will swear my grandmother’s old farthingale to be priest’s ® 
vestments, and the story book of Owlenspiegel, a Popish missal!” 


PEVERTL OE THE PEAK. 


231 

“ But how’s this. Master Bridgenorth?” said Topham, addressing 
the magistrate; “ ^your honor has been as busy as we have; and you 
have caught another knave while we recovered these toys.” 

”1 think, sir,” said Julian, “if you look into your warrant, 
which, if I mistake not, names the persons whom you are directed 
to arrest, j^’oti will find you have no title to apprehend me.” 

JSir,” said the officer, pulling with importance, ” I do not know 
who you are; but 1 would you were the best man in England, that 
I might teach you the respect due to the-waiTant of the House. Bir, 
there steps not the man within the British seas but 1 will arrest him 
on authority of this bit of parchment; and 1 do arrest you accord- 
ingly. What do you accuse him of, gentlemen?” 

Dangerfield swaggered forward, and peeping under Julian’s hat, 
” Stop my vital breath,” he exclaimed, ” but 1 have seen you be- 
fore, my friend, an 1 could but think where; but my memory is not 
worth a bean, since 1 have been obliged to use it so much of late, in 
the behalf of the jioor state. But 1 do know the fellow; and 1 have 
seen him amongst the Papists. I’ll take that on my assured damna- 
tion.” 

‘‘Why, Captain Dangerfield,” said tfie captain's smoother, but 
more dangerous associate — ” verily, it is the same youth whom we 
saw at the horse-merchant’s yesterday; and we had matter against 
him then, only Master Topham did not desire us to bring it out.” 

‘‘Ye may bring out what ye will against him now,” said Top- 
ham, ‘‘ for he hath blasphemed the warrant of the House. 1 think 
ye said ye saw him somewhere.” 

” Ay, verily,” said Everett, ‘‘ 1 have seen him amongst the semi- 
nary pupils at Saint Omer’s— he was who but he wiAi the regents 
there.” 

” Nay, Master Everett, collect yourself,” said Topham, ” for, as 
1 think, you said you saw him at a consult of the Jesuits in London. ” 

‘‘ It was 1 said so. Master Topham,” said the unda’inted Danger- 
field ; ‘‘ and mine is the tongue that will swear it. ” 

‘‘ Good Master Topham,” said Bridgenortb, ‘‘jmu may suspend 
further inquir}’’ at present, as it doth but fatigue and perplex tJie 
memory of the kihg’s witnesses.” 

” You are wrong. Master Bridgenorth — clearly wrong. It doth 
but keep them in wind — only breathes them like greyhounds before 
a coursing match.” 

” Be it so,” said Bridgenorth, with his usual indifference of man- 
ner; ” but at present this youth must stand committed upon a war- 
rant, which 1 will presently sign, of having assaulted me while in 
discharge of my duty as a magistrate, for the rescue of a person 
legally attached. Did you not hear the report of a pistol?” 

‘‘ 1 will swear to it,’' said Everett. 

” And 1,” said Dangerfield. “ While we were making search in 
the cellar, 1 heard something very like a pistol-shot; butl conceived 
it to be the drawing of a long-corked bottle of sack, to see wiiether 
there were any Popish relicts in the inside on’t.” 

“A pistol-shot!” exclaimed Topham; “here might have been a 
second Sir Edmondsbuiy Godfre 5 ’’’s matter. Oh, thou real spawn 
of the red-old dragon! for he loo would have re.sisted the House’s 
warrant, had we not taken him something at unawares. Master 


^32 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Bridgenortli, you are a judicious magistrate, and a worthy servau 
of the state. 1 would we had many such sound Protestant justices. 
Shall 1 have this young fellow away with his parents — what think 
you? or will you keep him for re-examination?’' 

“Master Bridgenorth,” said Lady Peveril, in spite of her hus- 
band’s efforts to interrupt her, “ tor God’s sake, it ever you knew 
what it was to love one of the many children you have lost, or her 
who is now left to you, do not pursue your vengeance to the blood 
of my poor boy! 1 will forgive you all the rest — all the distress y’^ou 
have wrought — all the yet greater misery with which you threaten 
US; but do not be extreme with one who never can have offended 
you! Believe!, that if your ears are shut against the cry of a despair- 
ing mother, those which are open to the complaint of all who sor- 
row, will hear my petition and your answer!’’ 

The agony of mind and of voice with which Lady Peveril uttered 
these words seemed to thrill through all present, though most of 
them were but too much inured to such scenes. Every one was si- 
lent, when ceasing to speak, she fixed on Bridgenorth her eyes, 
glistening with tears, with the eager anxiety of one whose life or 
death seemed to depend upon the answer to be returned. Even 
Bridgenoith’s inflexibility seemed to be shaken; and his voice was 
tremulous, as he answered, “Madam,! would to God I had the 
present means of relieving your great distress, otherwise than by re- 
commending to you a reliance upon Providence; and that you take 
heed to your spirit, that it murmur not under this crook in your lot. 
For me, 1 am but as a rod in the hand of the strong man, which 
smites not of itself, but because it is wielded by the arm of him who 
holds the same! ” 

“ Even as I and my black rod are guided by the Commons of 
England,” said Master Topham, who seemed marvelously pleased 
^ith the illustration. 

Julian now thought it time to say something in his own behalf; 
and he endeavored "to temper it with as much composure as it was 
possible for him to assume. “Master Bridgenorth,” he said, “I 
neither dispute your authority, nor this gentleman’s warrant—” 
“You do not?” said Topham. “Oh, ho, master youngster,! 
thought we should bring you to your senses presently!” 

“Then, if you so will it. Master Topham,” said Bridgenorth, 
“thus it shall be. You shall set out with early day, taking with 
you, toward London, the persons of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Peveril; 
and that they may travel according to their quality, you will allow 
them their coach, sufficiently guarded.” 

“! will travel with them myself,” said Topham; “for these 
rough Derbyshire roads are no easy riding; and my very eyes are 
weary wilh looking on these bleak hills. !n the coach ! can sleep as 
sound as if ! were in the House, and Master Bodderbrains on his legs. ’ ’ 
“ !t will become you so to take your ease. Master Topham,” an- 
sw^ered Bridgenorth. “ For this youth, ! will take him under my 
charge, and bring him up myself.” 

“ 1 may not be answerable for that, worthy Master Bridgenorth,” 
said Topham, “ since he comes within the warrant of the House.” 

“ Nay, but,” said Bridgenorth, “ he is only under custody for an 
assault, with the purpose of a rescue; and ! counsel you against 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


233 

meddling with him, unless you have stronger guard. Sir Geoffrey 
is now old and broken, but this young tellow is in the flower ot his 
youth, and hath at his beck all the debauched young cavaliers of the 
neighborhood. You will scarce cross the country without a rescue.” 

Topham eyed Julian wisttully, as a spider may be supposed to 
look upon a stray wasp which has got into his web, and which he 
longs to secure, though he tears the consequences of attempting him. 

Julian himself replied, “ 1 know not if this separation be well or 
ill meant on your part. Master Bridgenorth: but on mine, 1 afn only 
desirous to share the fate ot my parents, and therefore 1 will give 
my word of honor to attempt neither rescue nor escape, on condition 
you do not separate me from them.” 

‘‘Do not say so, Julian,” said his mother; “ abide with Master 
Bridgenorth — my mind tells me he cannot-mean so ill by us as his 
rough conduct would now lead us to infer.” 

‘‘ And 1,” said Sir Geoffrey, “ know, that between the doors of 
_my father’s house and the gates of hell there steps not such a villain 
on the ground! And if I wish my hands ever to be unbound again, 
it is because 1 hope for one downright blow at a gray head that has 
hatched more treason than the whole Long Parliament.” 

‘‘Away with thee,” said the zealous officer; ‘‘is parliament a 
word for so foul a mouth as thine? Gentlemen,” he added, turning 
to Everett and Dangerfield, ‘‘ you will bear witness to this.” 

‘‘ To his having reviled the House of Commons— by G — d, that I 
will!” said Dangerfield; ‘‘ I will take it on my damnation.” 

‘‘ And verily,” said Everett, ‘‘ as he spoke of parliament general- 
ly, he hath contemned the House of Lords also.” 

‘‘ AVhy, ye poor insignificant wretches,” said Sir Geoffrey; 
‘‘ whose very life is a lie — and whose bread is perjury— would you 
pervert my innocent words almost as soon as they have quitted my 
lips? I tell you the country is well weary of j^ou; and should En- 
glishmen come to their senses, the jail, the pillory, the whipping- 
post, and the gibbet, will be too good preferment for such base 
blood-suckers. And now. Master Bridgenorth, you and they may 
do your worst; for 1 will not open my mouth to utter a single word 
while 1 am in the company of such knaves.” 

‘‘Perhaps, Sir Geoffrey,” answered Bridgenorth, “you would 
better have consulted your own safety in adopting that resolution a 
little sooner — the tongue is a little member, but it causes much 
strife. Y"ou, Master Julian, will please to follow me, and without 
remonstranceor resistance; lor you must be aware that 1 have the 
means of compelling.” 

Julian was, indeed, but too sensible that he had no other course 
but that of submission to superior force; but ere he left the apart- 
ment, he kneeled down to receive his father’s blessing, which the old 
man bestowed not without a tear in his eye, and in the emphatic 
words, “God bless thee, my boy; and keep thee good and true to 
Church and King, whatever wind shall bring foul weatheri” 

Ilis mother was only able to pass her hand over his head, and to 
implore him, in a low tone of voice, not to be rash or violent in any 
attempt to render them assistance. “We arc innocent,” she said, 
“ my son—we are innocent — and we are in God’s hands. Be the 
thought our best comfort apd protection,” 


234 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Bridgenorth now signed to Julian to follow him, which he did, 
accompanied, or rather conducted, h}" the two guards who had lirst 
disarmed him. When they had passed froni the apartment, and 
were at the door of the outward hall, Bridgenorth asked Julian 
whether he should consider him as under parole; in which case, he 
said, he would dispense with all other security but his own promise. 

Peveril, who could not help hoping somewhat from the favorable 
and unresentful manner in which he was treated by one whose life 
he bad so recently attempted, replied, without hesitation, that he 
would give his parole for twenty four hours, neither to attempt to 
escape by force nor by flight, 

“ It is wisely said," replied Bridgenorth; “ for though you might 
cause bloodshed, be assured that your utmost etforts could no no 
service to your parents^ Horses there — horses to the court-yard!" 

The trampling of horses was soon heard; and in obedience to 
Bi idgenorth’s signal, and in compliance with his promise, Julian 
mounted one which was presented to him, and prepared to leave the 
house of his fathers, in which his parents were now prisoners, and 
to go, he knew not whither, under the custody of one known to be 
the ancient enemy of his family. He was rather surprised at observ- 
ing that Bridgenorth and he were about to travel without any other 
attendants. 

When they were mounted, and as they rode slowly toward the 
outer-gate of the court yard, Bridgenorth said to him, “ it is not 
every one who would thus unreservedly commit his safety, by trav- 
eling at night, and unaided, with the hot-brained youth who so lately 
attempted his life.” 

“ Master Bridgenorth,” said Julian, ” 1 might tell you trulj^ that 
1 knew you not at the time when 1 directed my weapon against you; 
but 1 must also add, that the cause in which 1 used it, might have 
rendered me, even had 1 kuoM'n you, a slight respecter of your per- 
son. At present, 1 do know you; and have neither malice against 
your person, nor the liberty of a parent to flght for. Besides, you 
have my word; and when was a Peveril known to break it?” 

” Ay,” replied his companion, ” a Peveril— a Peveril of the PeaR! 
—a name which has long sounded like a war-trumpet in the land; 
but which has now perhaps sounded its last loved note. Look back, 
young man, on the darksome turrets of your father’s house, which 
uplift themselves as proudly on the brow of the hill, as their owners 
raised themselves above the sous of their people. Think upon your 
father, a captive— yourself in some sort a fugitive— j'our light 
quenched— your glory abased— your estate wrecked and impov- 
erished. Tliink that Providence has subjected the destinies of the 
race of Peveril to one, whom, in their aristocratic pride, they held 
as a plebeian upstart. Think of this; and when you again boast of 
your ancestry, remember, that He who raiseth the lowly can also 
abase the high in heart.” 

Julian did indeed gaze for an instant, ^vith a swelling heart, upon 
the dimly seen turrets of his paternal mansion, on which poured the 
moonlight, mixed with long shadows of the towers and trees. But 
while he sadly acknowledged the truth of Bridgeuorth’s observation, 
he felt indignant at his ill timed triumph. ” irtortunehad followed 
worth,” he said, ” the Castle of Martindale, and the name of Pev- 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


235 


eril, had afforded no room for- their enemy’s vainglorious boast. But 
those who have stood high on Fortune’s wheel," must abide by the 
consequences of its revolutions. This much 1 will at least say for 
my father’s house, that it has not stood unhonored; nor will it fall — 
if it is to fall— unlamented. Forbear, tljeu, if you are indeed the 
Christian you call yourself, to exult in the misfortunes of others, or 
to confide in your own prosperity. If the light of our house be now 
quenched, God can rekindle it in his own good time.” 

Peveril broke off in extreme surprise; for as he spake the last 
words, the bright red beams of the family beacon began again to 
glimmer from its wonted watch-tower, checkering the pale moon- 
beam with a ruddier glow. Bridgenorth also gazed on tliis unex- 
pected illumination with surprise, and not, as it seemed, without dis- 
quietude. “ Young man,” he resumed, ” it can scarcely be but that 
Heaven intends to work great things by your hand, so singularly has 
that augury followed on your words. ’ ’ 

So saying, he put his horse once more in motion and looking 
back, from time to time, as if to assure himself that the heacou of 
the castle was actually rekindled, he led the way through the well- 
known paths and alleys, to his (‘wu house of Moultrassie, followed 
by Peveril, who although sensible that the light might be altogether 
accidental, could not but receive as a good omen an event so inti- 
mately connected with the traditions and usages of his family. 

lliey alighted at the hall- door, which was hastily opened by a fe- 
male; and while the deep tone of Bridgenorth called on the groom to 
take their horses, the well-known voice of his da\ighter Alice was 
heard to exclaim in thanksgiving to God, who had restored her fa- 
ther in safety. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

We meet, as men see phantoms in a dream, 

Which grlide, and sigh, and sigh, and move their lips, 

But make no sound ; or, if tliey utter voice, 

’Tis but a low and undistinguish’d moaning, 

Which has nor word nor sense of utter’d sound. 

The Chieftain. 

We said, at the conclusion of the last chapter, that a female form 
appeared at the door of Moultrassie-Hall ; and that the well-known 
accents of Alice Bridgenorth were heard to hail the return of her fa- 
ther from what she naturally dreaded as a perilous visit to the 
Castle of Maitindale. 

Julian, who followed his conductor with a throbbing heart into 
the lighted hall, was therefore prepared to see her whom he best 
loved, with her arms thrown around her father. Tlie instant she 
had quitted his paternal emorace, she was aw^are of the unexpected 
guest who had returned in his company. A deep blush, rapidly 
succeeded by deadly paleness, and again by a slighter suffusion, 
showed plainly to her lover that his sudden appearance was anything 
but indifferent to her. He bowed profoundly— a courtesy which she 
returned with equal formality, but did not venture to approach more 
nearly, feeling at once the delicacy of his own situation and of hers. 

Major Bridgenorth turned his cold, fixed, gray, melancholy 
glance, first on the one of them and then on the other, “ Some,” 


236 PEVEKIL* OF THE PEAK. 

he said, gravely, “ would, in my case, have avoided this meeting; 
but 1 have confidence in you both, although you are young, and be- 
set with the snaies incidental to your age. There are those within 
who should not know that ye have been acquainted. Wherefore, 
be wise, and be as strangers to each other.” 

Julian and Alice exchanged glances as her father turned from 
them, and lifting a lamp which stood in the entrance-hall, led the 
way to the interior apartment. There was little of consolation in this 
exchange of looks; for the sadness of Alice’s glance was mingled 
with tear, and that of Julian clouded by an anxious sense of doubt. 
The look also was but momentary ; for Alice, springing to her fa- 
ther, took the light out of his hand, and, stepping before him, acted 
as the usher of both into the large oaken parlor, which has been al- 
ready mentioned as the apartment in which Bridgenorth had spent 
the hours of dejection which followed the death of his consort and 
family. It was now lighted up as for the reception of company; 
and five or six persons sat in it, in the plain, black, stiff dress, which 
was affected by the formal Puritans of the time, in evidence of their 
contempt of the manners of the luxurious Court of Charles the Sec- 
ond; amongst whom, excess of extravagance in appai el, like excess 
of e\ery other kind, w^as highly fashionable. 

Julian at first glanced his eyes but slightly along the range of 
grave and severe faces which composed this society — men, sincere, 
perhaps, in their pretensions to a superior purity of conduct and 
morals, but in whom that high praise was somewhat chastened by an 
affected austerity in dress and manners, allied to those Pharisees of 
old, who made broad their phylacteries, and would be seen of man 
to fast, and to discharge with rigid punctuality the observances of 
the law. Their dress w\as almost uniformly a black cloak and 
doublet, cut straight and close, and undecorated with lace or em- 
broidery of an)’^ kind, black Flemish breeches and hose, square toed 
shoes, with large roses made of serge ribbon. Tw^o or three had 
large loose boots of calf- leather, and almost every one was begirt 
with a long rapier, which was suspended by leathern thongs, to a 
plain belt of buff, or of black leather. One or tw'o of the elder 
guests, whose hair had been thinned by time, had their heads cov- 
ered with a skullcap of black silk or velvet, which, being draw'n 
down betwixt the ears and the skull, and permitting no hair to es- 
cape, occasioned the former to project in the ungraceful manner 
whicti may be remarked in old pictures, and which procured for the 
Puritans the term of ” prickeared Roundheads,” so unceremonious- 
ly applied to them by their cofttemporaries. 

These worthies were ranged against the wall, each in his ancient 
high-backed, long-legged chair; neither looking toward, nor appar- 
ently discoursing with each other; but plunged in their owm reflec- 
tions, or awaiting like an assembly of Quakers, the quickening 
power of divine inspiration. 

Major Bridgenorth glided along this formal society with noiseless 
step, and a composed severity of manner, resembling their own. He 
paused before each in succession, and apparently communicated, as 
he passed, the transactions of the evening, and the circumstances 
under which the heir of Martindale Castle was now a guest at Moul- 
trassie-Hall.' Each seemed to stir at his brief detail, like a range of 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


statues in an enchanted hall, starting into something like life, as a 
talisman is applied to them successiv^y. Most of them, as they 
heard the narrative of their host, cast upon Julian a look of curios- 
ity, blended with haughty scorn' and the consciousness of spiritual 
superiority; though, in one or two instances, the milder influences 
of compassion were sufficiently visible. Peveril would have under- 
gone this gantlet of eyes with more impatience, had not Jiis own 
been for the time engaged in following the motions of Alice, who 
p’lided through the apartment ; and only speaking very briefly, and 
in whispers, to one or two of the company who addressed her, took 
her place beside a treble-hooded old lady, the only female of the 
party, and addressed herself to her in such earnest conversation, as 
might dispense with her raising her head, or looking at any others in 
the cpmpany. 

Her father put a question, to which she was obliged to return an 
answer— “ Where was Mistress Debbitch?” 

“ She had gone out,” Alice replied, “ early after sunset, to visit 
some old acquaintances in the neighborhood, and she was not yet re- 
turned.” 

Major Bridgenorth made a gesture indicative of displeasure; and, 
not content with that, expressed his determined resolution that Dame 
Deborraii should no longer remain a member of his family. ” I will 
have those,” he said aloud, and without regarding the presence of 
his guests, ‘‘ and those only, around me, who know to keep within 
the sober and modest bounds of a Christian family. Who pretends 
to more freedom, must go out from among us, as not being of us.” 

A deep and emphatic humming noise, which was at that time the 
mode in which the Puritans signified their applause, as well of the 
doctrines expressed by a favorite divine in the pulpit, as of those de- 
livered in private society, ratified the approbation of the assessors, 
and seemed to secure the dismission of the unfortunate governante, 
who stood thus detected of - having strayed out of bounds. Even 
Peveril, although he had reaped considerable advantages, in his 
^arly acquaintance with Alice, from the mercenary and gossiping 
disposition of her governess, could not hear of her dismissal without 
approbation, so much was he desirous, that, in the hour of difficulty, 
which might soon approach, Alice might have the benefit of counte- 
nance and advice from one of her own sex, of better manners, and 
less suspicious probity, than Mistress Debbilch. 

Almost immediately after this communication had taken place, a 
servant in mourning showed his thin, pinched, and wrinkled visage 
in the apartment, announcing, with a voice more like a passing bell 
than tlie herald of a banquet, that refreshments were provided in 
an adjoining apartment. Gravely leading the way, with his 
daughter on one side, and the puritanical female wdiom we have 
distinguished on the other, Bridgenorth himself ushered his com- 
pany, who followed, with little attention to order or ceremony, into 
the eating-room, where a substantial supper was provided. 

in this manner, Peveril, although entitled according to ordinary 
ceremonial, to some degree of precedenbe — a matter at that time con- 
sidered of much importance, although nofw little regarded— was left 
among the last of those who quitted the parlor; and might indeed 
have brought up the rear of all, had not one of the company who 


238 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


was himself late in the retreat, bowed and resigned to Julian the 
rank in the company which had been usurped by others. 

This act ot politeness naturally induced Julian to exanrine the 
features of the person who had offered him this civility; and he 
started to observe, under the pinched velvet cap, and above the short 
band-strings, the countenance ot Ganlesse, as he.calied himselt — his 
companion on the preceding evening. He looked again and again, 
especially when all were placed at the supper board, and when, con- 
sequently, he had frequent opportunities of observing this person 
fixedly, without any breach ot good manners. At first he wavered 
in his belief, and was much inclined to doubt the reality of his rec- 
ollection; for the difference of dress was such as to effect a consider- 
able change of appearance; and the countenance itself, far from ex- 
hibiting anything marked or memorable, was one of those ordinary 
visages which we see almost without remarking them, and which 
leave our memory so soon as the object is withdrawn from our eyes. 
But the impression upon his mind returned, and became stronger, 
unlil it induced him to watch with peculiar attention the manners of 
the individual who had thus attracted his notice. 

During the time of a very piolonged grace before meat, which 
was delivered by one of the company — who, from his Geneva baud 
and serge doublet, presided, as Julian supposed, over some dissent- 
ing congregation — he noticed that this man kept the same demure 
and severe cast ot countenance usually affected by the Puritans, and 
which rather caricatured the reverence unquestionably due upon 
such occasions. His eyes were turned upward, and his huge pent- 
house hat, with a high crown and broad brim, held in both hands 
before him, rose and fell with the cadence of the speaker’s voice; 
thus marking time, as it were, to the periods of the benediction. 
Yet when the slight bustle took place which attends the adjusting 
of chairs, etc., as men sit down to table, Julian’s eye encountered 
that of the stranger; and as their looks met, there glanced from those 
of the latter an expression ot satirical humor and scorn, which 
seemed to intimate internal ridicule of the gravity of his present de- 
meanor. 

Julian again sought to fix his eye, in order to ascertain that he had 
not mistaken the tendency of this transient expression, but the stran- 
ger did not allow him another opportunity. He might have been 
discovered by the tone of his voice; but the individual m question 
spoke little, and in whispers, which was indeed the fashion of the 
whole company, whose demeanor at table resembled that of mourn- 
ers at a funeral feast. 

The entertainment itself was coarse, though plentiful; and must, 
according to Julian’s opinion, be distasteful to one so exquisitely 
skilled in good cheer, and so capable of enjoying, critically and sci- 
entifically, the genial preparations of his companion. Smith, as Gan- 
lesse had shown himself on the preceding evening. Accordingly, 
upon close observation, he remarked that the food which he took 
upon his plate remained there uncousumed ; and that his actual sup- 
per consisted only of a crust of bread, with a glass of wine. 

The repast was hurried over with the haste of those, who think it 
shame, it not sin, to make mere animal enjoyments the means of 
consuming time, or of receiving pleasure; and when men wiped 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


their mouths and mustaches, Julian remarked, that the object of his 
curiosity used a handkerchief ot the finest cambric — an article 
rather inconsistent with the exterior plainness, not to say coarse- 
ness, of bis appearance. He used also several of the more minute 
refinements, then only observed at tables of the higher rank; ana 
Julian thought he could discern, at eveiy turn, something of court- 
ly manners and gestures, under the precise and rustic simplicity of 
the character which he had assumed.^ 

But it this were indeed that same Ganlesse with whom Julian 
had met on the preceding evening, and who had boasted the facility 
with which he could assume any character which he pleased to rep- 
resent for the time, what could be the purpose of his present dis- 
guise? He was, if his own words could be creditf'd, a person 
of some importance, who dared to defy the danger ofi those officers 
and informers, before whom all ranks at that lime trembled ; nor 
was he likely, as Julian conceived, without some strong purpose, to 
subject himself to such a masquerade as the present, which could 
not be otherwise than irksome to one whose conversation pro- 
claimed him of light life and free opinions. Was his appearance 
here for good or for evil? Did it respect his father’s house, or his 
own person, or the family of Bridgenorlh? Was the real character 
ot Ganlesse known to the master of the house, inflexible as lie was 
in all which concerned morals as well as religion? If not, might 
not the machinations of a brain so subtile affect the peace and hap- 
piness of Alice Bridgenorlh? 

These were questions which no reflection could enable Peveril to 
answer, flis eyes glanced from Alice to the stranger; and new 
fears, and undefined suspicions, in which the safety of that beloved 
and lovely girl was implicated, mingled with the deep anxiety which 
already occupied his mind, on account of his father, and his father’s 
house. 

He was in this tumult of mind, when, after a thanksgiving as long 
as the grace, the company arose from table, and were instantly 
summoned to the exercise ot family worship. A train of domes- 
tics, grave, sad, and melancholy as their superiors, glided in to assist 
at this act of devotion, and ranged themselves at the lower end of 
the apartment. Most of these men were armed with long tucks, as 
the straight stabbing swords, mucli used by Cromwell’s soldiery, were 
then called. Several had large pistols also; and the corselets or 
cuirasses of some were heard to clank, as they seated themselves to 
partake in this act of devotion. The ministry of him whom Julian 
had supposed a preacher, was not used on this occasion. Major 
Bridgenorlh himself read and expounded a chapter of Script lire, 
with much strength and manliness of expression, although so as not 
to escape the charge of fanaticism. The nineteenth chapter ot Jere- 
miah was the portion of Scripture which he selected; in which, un- 
der the type of breaking a potter’s vessel, the prophet presages the 
desolation of the Jews. The lecturer was 'not naturally eloquent; 
but a strong, deep, and sincere conviction of the truth of what he 
said, supplied him with language of energy and fire, as he drew a 

* A Scottish ^entleaian in hidiiKj, as it was emphatically termed, for some 
concern in a Jacobite insurrection or plot, was discovered among a number of 
ordinary persons, by the use of his toothpick. 


240 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


parallel between the abominations of the worship of Baal, and the 
corruptions of the Church of Rome— so favorite a topic with the 
Puritans of that period; and denounced against the Catholics, and 
those who favored them, that hissing and desolation which the 
prophet directed against the city of Jerusalem. His hearers made a 
yet closer application ihan the lecturer himselt suggested; and many 
a dark proud eye intimated, by a glance on Julian, that on his fa- 
ther’s house were already, in some part, realized those dreadful male- 
dictions. 

The lecture finished, Bridgenorth summoned them to unite with 
him in prayer; and on a slight change of arrangements amongst the 
company, which took place as they were about to kneel down, Julian 
found his plVce next to the single-minded and beautiful object of his 
affection, as : she knelt, in her loveliness, to adore her Creator. A 
short time was permitted for mental devotion; during which, 
Peveril could hear her half-breathed petition for the promised bless- 
ings of peace on earth, and good will toward the children of men. 

The prayer which ensued was in a different tone. It was poured 
forth by the same person who had officiated as chaplain at the table; 
and was in the tone of a Boanerges, or Son of Thunder — a de- 
nouncer of crimes — an invoker of judgments — almost a prophet of 
evil and of destruction. The testimonies and the sins of the da}^ 
were not forgotten — the mysterious murder of Sir Edmondsbury 
Godfrey was insisted upon — and thanks and praise w'ere offered, 
that the very night on which they were assembled, had not seen an- 
other offering of a Protestant magistrate to the bloodthirsty fury of 
the revengeful Catholics. 

Never had Julian found it more difficult, during an act of devo- 
tion, to •maintain his mind in a frame befitting the posture and the 
occasion; and when he heard the speaker return thanks for the down- 
fall and devastation of his family, he was strongly tempted to have 
started upon his feet, and charged him with offering a tribute, 
stained with falsehood and calumny, at the throne of truth itself 
He resisted, however, an impulse which it would have been insanity 
to have yielded to, and his patience was not without its reward; for 
when his fair neighbor arose from her knees, the lengthened and 
prolonged prayer being at last concluded, he observed that her eyes 
were streaming with tears; and one glance with which she looked at 
him in that moment showed more of affectionate interest for him in 
his fallen fortunes and precarious condition, than he had been able to 
obtain from her when his worldly estate seemed so much the more 
exalted of the two. 

Cheered and fortified with the conviction that one bosom in the 
companj’-, and that in which he most eagerly longed to secure an in- 
terest, sympathized with his distress, he felt strong to endure what- 
ever was to follow, and shrunk not from the stern still smile with 
which, one by one, the meeting regarded him, as, gliding to their 
several places of repose, they indulged themselves at parting with a 
look of triumph on one, whom they considered as their captive 
enemy. 

Alice also passed by her lover, her eyes fixed on the ground, and 
answered his low obeisance without, raising them. The room was 
now empty, but for Bridgenorth and his guest, or prisoner; tor it is 


241 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 

difficult to say in wliich capacity Peveiil ought to regard-^iiniselt. 
He took an old brazen lamp ironi the table, and, leading the way, 
said, at the same time, “ I must be the uncourtly chamberlain, who 
am to usher you to a place of repose, more rude, perhaps, than you 
have been accustomed to occupy.” 

Julian followed him, in silence, up an old-fashioned winding stair- 
case, within a turret. At the landing place on the top, was a small 
apartment, where an ordinary pallet bed, two chairs, and a small 
stone table, were the only furniture. “ Your bed,” continued 
Bridgenorth, as if desirous to prolong their interview, “ is not of the 
softest; but innocence sleeps as sound upon straw as on down.” 

“ Sorrow, Major Bridgenorth, finds little rest on either,” replied 
Julian. “ Tell me, for you seem to await some question from me, 
what is to be the fate of my parents, and why you separate me from 
them?” 

Bridgenorth, for answer, indicated with his finger the mark Which 
his countenance still showed from the explosion of Julian's pistol. 

“ That,” replied Julian, “ is not the real cause of your proceed- 
ings against me. It cannot be, that you, who have been a soldier, 
and are a man, can be surprised or displeased by my interference in 
the defense of my father. Above all, you cannot, and 1 must needs 
say you do not, believe that I would have raised my hand against 
you personally, had there been a moment’s time for recognition.” 

“ 1 may grant all this,” said Bridgenorth; “ but what the better 
are you for my good opinion, or for the ease with which 1 can for- 
give you the injury which you aimed at me? Y^ou are in my cus- 
tody as a magistrate, accused of abetting the foul, bloody, and 
heathenish plot, for the establishment of Popery, the murder of the 
king, and the general massacre of all true Protestants.” 

“ And on what grounds, either of fact or suspicion, dare any one 
accuse me of such a crime?” said Julian. “ 1 have hardly heard of 
the plot, save by the mouth of common rumor, which, while it 
speaks of nothing else, takes care to say-nothing distinctly even on 
that subject.” 

“It maybe enough for me to tell you,” replied Bridgenorth, 
“ and perhaps it is a word too much — that you are a discovered in- 
triguer— a spied sp 3 ^ — who carries tokens and messages betwixt the 
Popish Countess of Derby and the Catholic party in London. Y"ou 
have not conducted your matters with such discretion, but that this 
is well known, and can be sufficiently proved. To this chargef 
which you are well aware you cannot deny, these men, Everett and 
Dangerfield, are not unwilling to add, from the recollection of 5 'our 
face, other passages, which will certainly cost you your life when 
you come before a Protestant jury.” 

“ They lie like villains,” said Peveril, “ who hold me accessory to 
any plot either against the king, the nation, or the state of religion; 
and for the countess, her loyalty has been too long, and too highly 
proved, to permit her being implicated in such injurious suspicions.” 

“ What she has already done,” said Bridgenorth, his face darken- 
ing as lie spoke, “ against the faithful champions of pure religion, 
ha"th sufficiently shown of what she is capable. She hath betaken 
herself to her rock, and sits, as she thinks, in security, like the eagle 
reposing after his bloody banquet. But the arrow of the fowler may 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


yet reatli her — the shalt is whetted — the how is bended — and it will be 
soon seen whether Amalek or Israel shall prevail. But for thee, J ulian 
Peveril— why should 1 conceal it from thee?— my heart yearns for 
thee as a woman’s for her tirst-born. To thee 1 will give, at the ex- 
pense of my own reputation— perhaps at the risk of personal sus- 
picion — for who, in these days of doubt, shall be exempted from it? 
f— to thee, 1 say, 1 will give means of escape, which else were impos- 
sible to thee. The staircase of this turret*descends to the gardens — 
the postern-gate is unlatched— on the right hand lie the stables, 
where you will find your own horse— take it, and make for Liver- 
pool — 1 will give you credit with a friend under the name of Simon 
Simonson, one persecuted by the prelates; and he will expedite your 
passage from the kingdom.” 

“Major Bridgeuorth,” said Julian, “1 will not deceive you. 
Were 1 to accept your offer of freedom, it would be to attend to a 
higher call than that of mere self-preservation. My father is in 
danger — mj'- mother in sorrow — the voices of religion and nature call 
me to their side. I am their only child — their only hope — 1 will aid 
them, or perish with them!” 

“ Thou art mad,” said Bridgenorth — “ aid them thou canst not — 
perish with them thou well mayst, and even accelerate their ruin; 
for, in addition to the charges with which thy unhappy father is 
loaded, it would be no slight aggravation, that while he meditated 
arming and calling together the Catholics and High Churchmen of 
Cheshire and Derbyshire, his son should prove to the confidential 
agent of the Countess of Derby, who aided her in making good her 
stronghold against the Protestant commissioners, and was dispatched 
by her to open secret communication with the Popish interest in 
London.” 

“ You have twice stated me as such an agent,” said Peveril, re- 
solved that his silence should not be construed into an admission of 
the charge, though he felt that it was in some degree well founded 
— “ What reason have you for such an allegation?” 

“ Will it suffice for a proof of my intimate acquaintance with 
your m5^stery,” replied Bridgenorth, “ if 1 should repeat to you the 
last words which the countess used to you when jmu left the castle 
of that Amalekitish woman? Thus she spoke: ‘ 1 am now a forlorn 
widow,’ she said, ‘ whom sorrow has made selfish.’ ” 

Peveril started, for these were the very words the countess had 
used; but he instantly recovered himself, and replied, “ Be your in- 
formation of what nature it will, 1 deny, and 1 defy it, so tar as it 
attaches aught like guilt to me. There lives not a man more inno- 
cent of a disloyal thought, or of a tiaitorous purpose. What 1 say 
for myself, 1 will, to the best of my knowledge, say and maintain, 
on account of the noble countess,* to whonu 1 am indebted for 
nurture.” 

“Perish, then, in thy obstinacy!” said Bridgenorth ; and turning 
hastily from him, he left the room, and Julfan heard him hasten 
down the narrow staircase, as if distrusting his own resolution. 

With a heavy heart, yet with that confidence in an overruling 
Providence which never forsakes a good and brave man, Peveril be- 
took himself to his lowly place of repose. 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


243 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The course of human life is changeful still, 

As is the fickle wind and wandering rill ; 

Or, like the light dance which the w ild-breeze weaves 
Amidst the faded race of fallen leaves ; 

Which now its breath bears dowm, now tosses high, 

Beats to the earth, or ^vafts to middle sky. 

Such, and so varied, the precarious play 
Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day ! 

Anonymous. 

Whilst, overcome with fatigue, and worn out by anxiety, Julian 
Peveril slumbered as a prisoner in the house of his hereditary enemy, 
Fortune was preparing his release by one of those sudden frolics 
with which she loves to confound the calculations and expectancies 
of humanity; and as she fixes on strange agents for such purposes, 
she condescended to employ, on the present occasion, no less a per- 
sonage than Mistress Deborah Debbitch. 

Instigated, doubtlesi?, by the pristine reminiscences of former 
times, no sooner had that most prudent and considerate dame found 
herself in the vicinity of the scenes of her earlier days, than she be- 
thought herself of a visit to the ancient housekeeper of Martindale 
Castle, Dame Ellesmere byname, wbo, long retired from active serv- 
ice, resided at the keeper’s lodge, in the west thicket, with her 
nephew, Lance Outram, subsisting upon the savings of her better 
days, and on a small pension allowed by Sir Geoffrey to her age and 
faithful services. 

Kow Dame Ellesmere and Mistress Deborah had not by any means 
been formerly on so friendly a footing, as this haste to visit her 
might be supposed to intimate. But years had taught Deborah to 
forget and forgive; or perhaps she had no special objection, under 
cover of a visit to Dame Ellesmere, to take the chance of seeing what 
changes time had made on her old admirer the keeper. Both inhabit- 
ants were in the cottage, when, after having seen her master set 
forth on his expedition to the castle. Mistress Debbitch, dressed in 
her very best gown, footed it through gutter, and over stile, and by 
pathway green, to knock at their door, and to lift the latch at the 
hospitable invitation which bade her come in. 

Dame Ellesmere’s eyes were so dim, that, even with the aid of 
spectacles, she failed to recognize, in the portly and mature person- 
age wdio entered their cottage, the tight well-made lass, who, presum- 
ing on her good looks and flippant tongue, had so often provoked 
her f)y insubordination ; and her former lover, the redoubted Lance, 
not being conscious that ale had given rotundity to his own figure, 
which was formerly so slight and active, and that brandy had trans- 
ferred to his nose the color which had once occupied his cheeks, was 
unable to discover that Deborah’s French cap, composed of sarsenet 
and Brussels lace, shaded the features which had so often procured 
him a rebuke from Dr. Diimmerar, for suffering his eyes, during the 
time or prayers, to wander to the maid-servants’ bench. 

In brief, the blushing visitor was compelled to make herself 


244 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


known; and when known, was received by aunt and nephew with 
the most sincere cordiality. 

The home-brewed was produced; and, in lieu of more vulgar 
food, a few slices of venison presently hissed in the frying-pan, giv- 
ing strong room for inference that Lance Outram, in his capacity of 
keeper, neglected not his own cottage when he supplied the larder at 
the castle, A modest sip of the excellent Derbyshire ale, and a 
taste of the highly-seasoned hash, soon placed Deborah entirely at 
home with her old acquaintance. 

Having put all necessary questions, and received all suitable an- 
swers, respecting the state of the neighborhood, and such of her own 
friends as continued to reside there, the conversation began rather to 
flag, until Deboral) found the art of again renewing its interest, by 
communicating to her friends the dismal intelligence that they must 
soon look tor deadly bad news from the castle; for that her present 
master. Major Bridgenorth, had been summoned, by some great 
people from London, to assist in taking her old master. Sir Geoffrey; 
and that all Master Bridgenorth’s servants, and several other 
persons, whom she named friends and adherents of the same inter- 
est, had assembled a force to surprise the castle; and that as Sir 
Geoffrey was now so old and gouty withal, it •could not be expected 
he should make the defense he was wont; and then he was known 
to be so stout-hearted, that it was not to be supnosed that he would 
yield up without stroke of sword; and then if he was killed, as he 
was like to be, amongst them that liked never a bone of his body, 
and now had him at their mercy, why, in that case, she. Dame 
Deborah, would look upon Lady Peveril as little better than a dead 
woman; and undoubtedly there would be a general mourning 
through all that country, where they had such great kin; and silks 
were likely to rise on it, as Master Lutestring, the mercer of CJiester- 
ficld, was like to feel in his purse bottom. But foi her part, let mat- 
ters wag how they would, and if Master Julian Peveril was to come 
to his own, she could give as near a guess as e’er another who was 
likely to be Lady at Martind ile. 

The text of this lecture, or, in other words, the fact that Bridge- 
north was gone with a party to attack Sir Geoffrey Peveril in his 
own castle of Martindale, sounded so stunningly strange in the ears 
of those old retainers of his family, that they had no power either to 
attend to Mistress Deborah’s inferences, or to interrupt the velocity 
of speech with which she poured them forth. And wdien at length 
she made a breathless pause, all that poor Dame Ellesmere could 
reply, was the emphatic question, “ Bridgenorth brave Peveril of 
the Peak! Is the woman mad?” 

” Come, come, dame,” said Deborah, “ woman me no more than 
1 w^oinan }mu. 1 have not been called mistress at the' head of the 
table for so many years, to be woman’d here by you. And for the 
news, it is as true as that you are sitting there in a white hood, who 
will weal a black one ere long.” 

” Lance Outram,” said the old woman, ” make out, it thou be’st 
a man, and listen about if aught stirs up at the castle.” 

” It there should,” said Outram, “ lam even too long here;” and 
he caught up his crossbow, and one or two arrows, and rushed out 
of the cottage. 


PETERIL OP THE PEAK. 


245 

“ Well-a-day!” ?aid Mistress Deborah, “ see if my news have not 
frightened away Lance Outram too, whom they used to say nothing 
could start. But do not take on so, dame; for i dare say if the castle 
and the lands pass to my new master, Major Bridgenorth, as it is 
like they will — for I have heard that he has powerful debts oyer the 
estate — you shall have my good word with him, and 1 promise you 
he is no bad man; something precise about preaching and praying, 
and about the dress which one should wear, which, 1 must own, 
beseems not a gentleman, as, to be sure, every woman knows best 
what becomes her. But for you, dame, that wear a prayer-book at 
your girdle, with your housewife-case, and never change the fashion 
of your white hood, 1 dare say he will not grudge you the little 
matter you need, and are not able to win,” 

“ Out, sordid jade!” exclaimed Dame Ellesmere, her very flesh 
quivering betwixt apprehension and anger, ” and hold your peace 
this instant, or 1 will find those that shall flay the very hide from 
thee with dog- whips. Hast thou eat thy noble master’s bread, not 
only to betray his trust, and fly from his service, but wouldst thou 
come here, like an ill-omened bird as thou art, to triumph over his 
downfall?” 

“ Nay, dame,” said Deborah, over whom the violence of the old 
woman had obtained a certain predominance; “ it is not 1 that say 
it— only the warrant of the parliament folks,” 

“ 1 thought we had done with their warrants ever since the blessed 
twenty-ninth of May,” said the old housekeeper of Martindale 
Castle; ‘‘but this 1 tell thee, sweetheart, that 1 have seen such 
warrants crammed, at the sword’s point, down the throats of them 
that brought them; and so shall this be, it there is one true man left 
to drink of the Dove.” 

As she spoke, Lance Outram re-entered the cottage. “Naunt,” 
he said in dismay, “ I doubt it is true what she says. The beacon 
tower is as black as my belt. No Pole-star of Peveril. What does 
that betoken?” 

‘‘ Death, ruin, and captivity,” exclaimed old Ellesmere. “ Make 
for the castle, thou knave. Thrust in thy great body. Strike for 
the house tlvat bred thee and fed thee; and if thou art buried under 
the ruins, thou diest a man’s death.” 

‘‘Nay, naunt, 1 shall not be slack,” answered Outram. ‘‘But 
here come folks that 1 warrant can tell us more on’t.” 

One or two of the female servants, who had fled from the castle 
during the alarm, now rushed' in with various reports of the case; 
but all agreeing that a body of armed men were in possession of the 
castle, and that Major Bridgenorth had taken young Master Julian 
prisoner, and conveyed him down to Moultrass’ie Hall, with his feet 
tied under the belly of the nag— a shameful sight to be seen— and 
he so well born and so handsome. 

Lance scratched his head; and though feeling the duty incumbent 
upon him as a faithful servant, which was indeed specially dinned 
into him by the cries and exclamations of his aunt, he seemed not a 
little dubious how to conduct himself. 1 would to God, naunt,” 
he said at last, ‘‘ that old Whitaker were alive now, with his long 
stories about Marston-moor and Edge-hill, that made us all yawn 
our jawsoli their hinges, in spite of broiled rashers and double-beer! 


246 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Wlien a man is missed, he is moaned, as they say; and 1 would 
rather than a broad piece he had been here to have sorted this mat- 
ter, for it is clean out of my way as a woodsman, that have no skill 
of war. But dang it, if old Sir Geoftrey go to the wall without a 
knock for it! Here you, ISTeil” — (speaking to one of the fugitive 
maidens from the castle)— “ but, no— you have not the heart of a 
cat, and are afraid of your own shadow by moonlight— But, Cis, 
you are a stout-hearted wench, and know a buck from a bullfinch. 
Hark thee, Cis, as you would wish to be married, get up to the castle 
again, and get thee in — thou best knuwest where — for thou hast oft 
gotten out of postern to a dance, or a junketing, to my knowledge 
— Get thee back to the castle, as ye hoi>e to be married — See my 
lady — they cannot hinder thee of that — my lady has a head worth 
twenty of ours — If 1 am to gather force, light up the beacon for a 
signal'; and spare not a tar bar el on’t. Thou mayst do it sate 
enough. 1 warrant the Roundheads busy with drink and plunder. 
And, hark thee, say to my lady 1 am gone down to the miners’ 
houses at Bonad venture. The rogues were mutinying for their 
wages but yesterday; they will l)e all ready for good or bad. Let 
her send orders down to me; oi do you come yourself, your legs are 
long enough.” 

“ Whether they are or not, Master Lance, (and you know nothing 
of the matter,) the}’’ shall do your errand to-uight, for love of the 
old knight and liis lady.” 

So Cisly Sellok, a kind of Derb^yshire Camilla, wdio had won the 
smock at the foot-race at Ashbourne, sprung forward toward the 
castle, with a speed which tew could have equaled. 

” There goes a mettled wench,” said Lance; “ and now, naunt, 
give me the old broadsword— it is above the bed-head — and my wood- 
knife; and 1 shall do well enough.” 

” And what is to become of me?” bleated the unfortunate Mis- 
tress Deborah Debbitch. 

” lou must remain here with my aunt. Mistress Deb; and, for 
old acquaintance’ sake, she will take caie no harm befalls you; but 
take heed how you attempt to break bounds.” 

So saying, and pondering in his own mind the task which he had 
undertaken, the hardy forester strode down the moonlight glade, 
scarcely hearing the blessings and cautions which Dame'Ellesmere 
kept showering after him. His thoughts were not altogether war- 
like. ” What a tight ankle ihe jade hath! she trips it like a doe in 
summer over the dew. Well, but here are the huts. Let us to this 
gear. Are ye all asleep, ye dammers, sinkers, and drift drivers? 
turn out, ye subterranean badgers. Here is your master. Sir Geoffrey, 
dead, for aught you know or care. Do not you see the beacon is 
unlit, and you sit there like so many asses?” 

” Why,” answered one of the miners, who now began to come 
out of their huts, 

“ An he be dead, 

He will eat no more bread.” 

‘‘And you are like to eat none neither,” said Lance; “ for the 
works will be presently stopped, and all of you turned off.” 

” Well, and what of it, Master Lance? As good play for naught 
as work for naught. Here is four weeks we have scarce seen the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


247 

color of Sir Geoffrey’s coin; and you ask us to care whetlier he be 
dead or in lite? For you, that goes about, trotting upon your 
horse, and doing tor work what all men do for pleasure, it may be 
well enough; but it is another matter to be leaving God’s light, and 
burrowing all day and night in darkness, like a toad in a hole— that’s 
not to be done tor naught, 1 trow; and if Sir Geoffrey is dead, his 
soul will suffer for ’t; and if he’s alive, we 11 have him in the Bar- 
moot Court.” 

“ Hark ye, gaffer,” said Lance, ” and take notice, my mates, all 
of you,” for a considerable number of these rude and subterranean 
people had now assembled to hear the discussion — ‘‘Has Sir Geoffrey, 
think you, ever put a penny in his pouch out. of this same Bonad- 
venture mine?” 

‘‘1 cannot say as 1 think he has,” answered old Ditchley, the 
party who maintained the controversy. 

“ Answer on your conscience, though it be but a leaden one, Do 
not you know that he hath lost a good penn}^?” 

” Why, 1 believe he maj^,” said Gaffer Ditchley. ‘‘ What then? 
lose to-day, win to-morrow — the iidser must eat in the meantime.” 

‘‘ True; but what will you eat w'hen Master Bridgenorth gets the 
land, that will not hear of a mine being wrought on his own 
ground! Will he work on at dead loss, think ye!” demanded trusty 
Lance. 

‘‘Bridgenorth? — he ot Moultrassie Hall, that stopped the great 
Felicity Work, on which his father laid out, some sa}--, ten thousand 
pounds, and never got m a jienny! Why, what has he to do with 
Sir Geoffrey’s property down here at Bonadventure! It was never 
his, I trow.” 

‘‘Nay, what do 1 know?” answered Lance, who saw the impres- 
sion he had made. ‘‘ Law and debt will give him half Derbj'shire, 1 
think, unless you stand by old Sir Geoffrey.” 

” But if Sir Geoffrey be dead,” said Ditchley, cautiously, “ what 
good will our standing by do to him!” 

‘‘ 1 did not say he was dead, but only as bad as dead; in the hands 
of the Roundheads — a prisoner up yonder, at his own castle,” said 
Lance; ‘‘and ivill have his head cut off, like the good Earl of 
Derby’s, at Bolton-le-Moors. ” 

‘‘ Nay, th#n comrades,” said Gaffer Ditchley, “an it be as Mas- 
ter Lance says, I think we should bear a hand for stout old Sir 
Geoffrey, against a low-born mean-spirited fellow like Bridgenorth, 
who shut up a shaft had cost thousands, without getting a penny 
profit on ’t. So hurra for Sir Geoffrey, and down with the Rump! 
But hold ye a blink— hold ”— (and the waving of his hand stopped 
the commencing cheer) — “ Hark ye. Master Lance, it must be all 
over, for tbe beacon is as black as night; and you know j^ourself 
that marks the lord’s death. ” 

“ It will kindle again in an instant,” said Lance; internally add- 
ing, “ 1 pray to God il. may! It will kindle in an instant— lack of 
fuel, and the confusion of the family.” 

“ Ay, like enow, like enow,” said Ditchley; “ but f winua budge 
till 1 see it blazing.” 

“ Why then, there a-goes!” said Lance. “ Thank thee, Cis — 
thank thee, my good wench. Believe your own eyes, my lads, if you 


248 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


will not believe me; and now hurra for Peveril of the Peak — the 
king and his friends — and down with Rumps and Roundheads 1” 

The sudden rekindling of the beacon had all the effect which Lance 
could have desired upon the minds of his lude and ignorant hearers, 
who, in their superstilious humor, had strongly associated the Polar- 
star of Peveril with the fortunes of the family. Unce moved, ac- 
cording to the national character of their countrymen, they soon be- 
came enthusiastic ; and Lance found himself at" the head of thirty 
stout fellows and upward, armed with their pick-axes, and ready to 
execute whatever task he should impose on them. 

Trusting to enter the castle by the postern, which had served to 
accommodate himself and other domestics upon an emergency, his 
only anxiety was to keep his march silent; and he earnestly recom- 
mended to his followers to reserve their shouts lor the moment of 
the attack. They had not advanced far on their road to the castle, 
when Cisly Sellok met them, so breathless with haste, that the poor 
girl w^as obliged to throw herself into Master Lance’s arms. 

“ Stand up, my mettled wench,” said he, giving her a sly kiss at 
the same time, “ and let us know what is going on up at the castle.” 

“ My lady bids you, as you would serve God and your master, 
not to come up to the castle, which can but make bloodshed; tor 
she says Sir Geoffrey is lawfully in hand, and that he must bide the 
issue; and that he is innocent of what he is charged with, and is 
going: up to speak for himself before king and council, and she goes 
up with him. And besides, tliej’" have found out the postern, the 
Roundhead rogues; for two of them saw me when I went out of 
door, and chased me; but 1 showed them a fair pair of heels.” 

“As ever dashed dew from the cowslip,” said Lance. “But 
what the foul fiend is to be done? for it the)^ have secured the pos- 
tern, 1 know not how^ the dickens w^e can get in.” 

“ All is fastened with bolt and staple, and guarded with ffun and 
pistol, at the castle,” quoth Cisly; “ and so sharp are they, that thev 
nigh caught me coming with my lady’s message, as 1 told you. But 
my lady says, if you could deliver her son. Master Julian, from 
Bridgenorth, that she would hold it good service.” 

“ What!” said Lance, “ is young master at the castle? 1 taught 
him to shoot his first shaft. But how to get in!” 

“ Fie was at the castle in the midst of the ruffle, bftt old Bridge- 
north has carried him down prisoner to the hall,” answered Cisly. 
“ There was never faith nor courtesy in an old Puritan who never- 
had pipe and labor in his house since it was built.” 

“ Or wiio stopped a promising mine,” said Ditchley, “ to save a 
tew thousand pounds, wdien he might have made himself as rich as 
the Lord of Chatsworth, and ted a hundred good fellow's all the 
whilst.” 

“ Why, then,” said Lance, “ since you are all of a mind, w’^e will 
go draw the cover tor the old badger ; and 1 promise you that the 
hall is not like one of your real houses of quality, where the walls 
are as thick as whinstone-dikes, but foolish brickwwk, that your 
pick-axes will work through as if it were cheese. Huzza once more 
for Pevreil of the Peak! d^wn with Bridgenorth, and all upstart 
cuckoldy Roundheads!” 

Having indulged the throats of hig f ollowers with one buxom 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


249 

huzza, Lance commanded them to cease their clamors, and proceeded 
to conduct them, by such paths as seemed the least likely to be 
watched, to the court-yard ot Moultrassie Hall. On the road they 
were joined by several stout yeomen tarmers, either followers of the* 
Peveril family^ or friends to the High Church and Cavalier party; 
most of whom, alarmed by the news which began to fly fast 
through the neighborhood, were armed with sword and pistol. 

Lance Outran halted his party, at the distance, as he himself de- 
scribed it, of a flight shot from the house, and advanced alone, and 
in silence, to reconnoiter; and having previously commanded Hitch- 
ley and his subterranean allies to come to his assistance whenever 
he should whistle, he crept cautiously forvvard, and soon found that 
those whom he came to surprise, true to the discipline which had 
gained their party such decided superiority during the Civil War, 
had posted a sentinel who paced through the courtyard piously 
chanting a psalm-tune, while his arms, crossed on his bosom, sup- 
ported a gun of formidable length. 

“ Now, a true soldier,” said Lance Outram to himself, ” would 
put a stop to thy sniveling ditty, by making a broad arrow quiver 
in your heart, and no great alarm given. But, dang it, 1 have not 
the right spirit for a soldier —1 cannot fight a man till my blood’s 
up; and for shooting him from behind a wall, it is cruelly like to 
stalking a deer. I’ll e’en face him, and try what to make of him.” 

With this doughty resolution, and taking no further care to con- 
ceal himself, he entered the court-yard boldly, and was making for- 
ward to the front door of the hall, as a matter of course. But the old 
Cromwellian, who was on guard, had not so learned his dut 3 ^ 
‘‘ Who goes there? Stand, friend — stand; or verily, 1 will shoot 
thee to death!” were challenges which followed each other quick, 
the last being enforced by the leveling and presenting the said long- 
ban’eled gun with which he was armed. 

‘‘ Vfhy, what a-murrain!” answered Lance. “ Is it your fashion 
to go a-shooting at this time o’ night! Why, this is but a time for 
bat- fowling.” 

” Nay, Mt hark thee, friend,” said the experienced sentinel, ”1 
am none of those who do this work negligently. Thou canst not 
snare me with thy crafty speech, though thou wouldst make it to 
sound simple in mine ear. . Of a verity 1 will shoot, unless thou tell 
thy name and business.” 

“Name!” said Lance; “ why, what a dickens should it be but 
Kobin Bound— -honest Robin of Redham; and for business, an you 
must needs know, I come on a message from some Parliament man, 
up yonder at the castle, with letters for worshipful Master Bridge- 
north of Moultrassie Hall; and this be the place, as i think; though 
why ye be marching up and down at his door, like the sign of the 
Red Man, with your old firelock there, I cannot so well guess.” 

“ Give me the letters, my friend,” said the sentinel, to whom this 
explanation seemed very natural and probable, “ and I will cause 
them forthwith to be delivered into his worship’s qwn hand.” 

Rummaging in his pockets, as if to pull out The letters which 
never existed. Master Lance approached within the sentinel’s piece, 
and, before he was aware, suddenly seized him by the collar, whis- 
tled sharp and shrill, and exerting his skill as a wrestler, for which 


250 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


lie had been distinguished in his youth, he stretched his antagonist 
on his back — the musket tor which they struggled going off in the 
fall. 

‘The miners rushed into the courtyard at Lance’s signal; and, 
hopeless any longer of prosecuting his design in silence, Lance com- 
manded two of them to secure the prisoner, and the rest to cheer 
loudly, and attack the door of the house. Instantly the courtyard of 
the mansion rang with the cry of “ Peveril of the Peak for ever!” 
with all the abuse which the Royalists had invented to cast upon 
the Roundheads, during so many years of contention; and at the 
same time, while some assailed the door with their mining imple- 
ments, others directed their attack against the angle, where a kind 
of porch joined to the main front of the building; and there, in 
some degree protected by the projection of the wall, and of a bal- 
cony which overhung the porch, wrought in more security, as well 
as with more effect, than the others; for the doors being of oak, 
thickly studded with nails, offered a more effectual resistance to 
violence than the brick-work. 

The noise of this hubbub on the outside soon excited wild alarm 
and tumult within. Lights flew from window to window, and 
voices were heard demanding the cause of the attack ; to which the 
party cries of those who were in the court-yard afforded a sufficient, 
or at least the only answ^er, which was vouchsafed. At length the 
window of a projecting staircase opened, and the voice of I3ridge- 
norlh himself demanded authoritatively what the tumult meant, 
and commanded the rioters to desist, upon their own proper and im- 
mediate peril. 

” We w^ant our young master, you canting old thief,” was the re- 
ply; *' and it we have him not instantly, the topmost stone of your 
house shall lie as low as the foundation.” 

” We will try that presently,” said Bridgenorth; ” tor if there is 
another blow struck against the walls of my peaceful house, 1 will 
fire my carbine among you, and your blood be upon your own 
head. 1 have a score of friends,* well armed with musket and pistol, 
to defend my house; and we have both the means and heart, with 
Heaven’s assistance, to repay any violence you can offer. 

‘‘Master Bridgenorth,” replied Lance, wdio, though a soldier, 
was sportsman enough to comprehend the advantage which those 
under cover, and using fire-arms, must necessarily have over his 
party, exposed to their aim, in a great measure, and without means 
of answering their fire — ‘‘Master Bridgenorth, lot us crave parley 
with you, and fair conditions. We desire to do j'ou no evil, but 
■will have back our young master: it is enough that you have got 
our old one and his lady! It is foul chasing to kill hart, hind, and 
fawn; and we will give you some light on the sirbject in an in- 
stant.” 

This speech was followed by a great crash amongst the lower win- 
dows of the house, according to a new species of attack which had 
been suggested by^ome of the assailants. 

‘‘ 1 would take the honest fellow’s word, and let young Peveril 
go,” said one of the garrison, who, carelessly yawning, approached 
on the inside the post at which Bridgenorth had stationed himself. 

” Are you mad?” said Bridgenorth; ‘‘ or do you think me poor 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


251 


enough in spirit to give up the advantages 1 now possess over the 
family of Peveril, for the awe of a parcel of boors, whom the first 
discharge will scatter like chafi before the whirlwind?” 

“ Nay,” answered the speaker, who was the same indrvidual that 
had struck Julian by his resemblance to the man who called himself 
Ganlesse, ” 1 love a dire revenge, but we shall buy it somewhat loo 
dear if these rascals set the house on fire, as they are like to do, 
while you are parleying from the windows. Tliey have thrown 
torches or fire brands into the hall; and it is all our friends can do 
to keep the flame from catching the wainscoting, which is old and 
dry.” 

” Now, may Heaven judge thee for thy lightness of spirit,” an- 
swered Bridge north; ‘‘one would think mischief was, so properly 
thy element, that to thee it was indiflerent whether friend or foe was 
the sufferer. ’ ’ 

So saying, he ran hastily down-stairs toward the hall, into which, 
through broken casements and betwixt the iron bars, which pre- 
vented human entrance, the assailants had thrust lighted straw', 
sufficient to excite much smoke and some fire, and to throw the de- 
fenders of the house into great confusion; insomuch, that of sev- 
eral shots fired hastily from the w'in ow's, little or no damage fol- 
low^ed to the besiegers, who, getting warm in the onset, answered 
the hostile charges with loud shouts of ‘‘ Peveril tor ever!” and 
had already made a practicable bi’eacli through the brick wall of 
the tenement, through which Lance, Ditchley, and several of the 
most adventurous among their toll owners, made their way into the 
hall. 

The complete capture of the house remained, however, as far off 
as ever. The defenders mixed with much coolness and skill that 
solemn and deep spirit of enthusiasm which sets life at less than 
nothing, in comparison to real or supposed duty. From the halt- 
opened doors wiiicli led into the hall, they maintained a fire which 
began to grow fatal. One miner w'as shot dead; three or tour were 
wounded; and Lance scarce knew wiietlier he should draw his 
forces from the house, and leave it a prey to the flames, or, making 
a desperate attack on the posts occupied by the defenders, try to ob- 
tain unmolested possession of the place. At this moment his course 
of conduct W'as determined by an unexpected occurrence, of which 
it is necessai)' to trace the cause. 

Julian Peveril had been, like other inhabitants of Moultrassie 
Hall on that momentous night, awakened by the report of the sen- 
tinel’s musket, follow'ed by the slnmts of his father’s vassals and 
followers; of which he collected enough to guess that Bridgenorth’s 
house was attached with a view' to his liberation. Very doubtful of 
the issue of such an attempt, dizzy with the slumber from which he 
had been so suddenly awakened, and confounded w'ith the rapid 
succession of events to which he had been lately a witness, he speed- 
ily put on a part of his clothes, and hastened to the wimlow of his 
apartment. From this he could see nothing to relieve his anxiety, 
for it looked toward a (piarter different from that on which the 
attack was made. He attempted his door; it was locked on the out- 
side; and his perplexity and anxiety became extreme, when sud- 
denly the lock was turned, and in an undress, hastily assumed in 


252 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


the moment ot alarm, her hair streaming on her shoulders, her eyes 
gleaming betwixt tear and resolution, Alice Bridgenorth rushed into 
his apartment and seized his hand with the fervent exclamation, 
“ Julian, save m}’- father!” 

The light which she bore in her hand served to show those feat- 
ures which could rarely have been viewed by any one without 
emotion, but which bore an expression irresistible to a lover. 

“Alice,” he said, “what means this? What is the danger? 
Where is your father?” 

“Do not stay to question,” she answei^ed; “ but if you would 
save him, follow me!” 

At the same time she led the way, with great speed, half way 
down the turret staircase which led to his room, thence turning 
through a side-door, along a long gallery, to a larger and wider 
stair, at the bottom of which stood her father, suiTounded by four 
or five of his friends, scarce discernible through the smoke of the 
fire which began to take hold in the hall, as well as that which arose 
from the repeated discharge of their own fire-aims. 

Julian saw there was not a moment to be lost, if he meant to be a 
successful mediator. He rushed through Bridgenorth ’s party ere they 
were avrare of his approach, and throwing himself amongst the as- 
sailants who occupied the hall in considerable numbers, he assured 
them of his personal safety, and conjured them to depart. 

“ Not without: a few more slices at the Rump, master,” answered 
Lance. “ 1 am principally glad to see ^’’ou safe and well; but here 
is Joe Rimegap shot as dead as a buck in season, and more of us are 
hurt; and we’ll have revenge, and roast the Puritans like apples for 
lambs wool!” 

“ Then you shall roast me along with them,” said Julian; “ f or 1 
vow to God, 1 will not leave the hall, being bound by parole of 
honor to abide with Major Bridgenorth till lawfully dismissed.” 

“Now out on you, and you w^ere ten times a Peveril!’' said 
Ditchley; “ to give so many honest fellows loss and labor on your 
behalf, and to show them no kinder countenance. 1 say, beat up 
the fire, and burn all together!” 

“ Nay, nay; but peace, my masters, and hearken to reason,” said 
Julian; “ we are all here in evil condition, and you will only make 
it worse by contention. Do you help, to put out this same fire, 
which will else cost us all dear. Keep 3Aurselves under arms. Let 
Master Bridgenorth and me settle some grounds of accommodation, 
and 1 trust all will be favorably made up on both sides; and it not, 
you shall have my consent and countenance to fight it out; and come 
on it what will, 1 will never forget this night’s good service.” 

He then drew Ditchley and Lance Outram aside, while the rest 
stood suspended at his appearance and words, and expressing the 
utmost thanks and gratitude tor what they had already done, 
urged them, as the greatest favor which they could do toward him 
and his father’s house, to permit him to negotiate the terms of his 
emancipation from thralldoni; at the same time, forcing on Ditchley 
five or six gold pieces, that the brave lads of Bonadventure might 
drink his health; whilst to Lance he expressed the warmest sense of 
his active kindness, but protested he could only consider it as good 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 253 

service to liis house, if he was allowed to manage the matter alter his 
own lashion. 

“ A\hy,” answered Lance, “ 1 am well out on it, Master Julian; 
for it is matter beyond my mastery. All that 1 stand to is, that 1 
will see you sate out ot this same Moultrassie Hall; lor oui old 
Naimt Ellesmere will else give me but cold comfort when 1 come 
home. Truth is, 1 began unwillingly; but when 1 saw the poor fel- 
low Joe shot besiae me, why, 1 thought we should have some 
amends. But 1 put it all in your honor’s hands.” 

During this colloquy both parties had been amicably employed in 
extinguishing the fire, which might otherwise have been fatal to 
all. It required a general effort to get it under; and both parties 
agreed on the necessary labor with as much unanimity as if the 
water they brought in leathern buckets from the well to throw upon 
the fire had had some effect in slaking their mutual hostility. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Necessity— thou best of peacemakers, 

As well as surest prompter of invention — 

Help us to composition ! 

Anonymous. 

While the fire continued, the two parties labored in active union, 
like the jarring factions ot the Jew’s during the siege of Jerusalem, 
when compelled to unite in resisting an assault of the besiegers. 
But when the last bucket of water had hissed on the few^ embers 
and continued to glimmer -'Wdien the sense ot mutual hostilit}’-, 
hitherlo suspended b}'’ a feeling of common danger, w^as in its turn 
rekindled — the parlies, mingled as they had hitherto been in one 
common exertion, drew off from eacdi other and began to arrange 
themselves at opposite sides of the hall, and handle their weapons, 
as it for a renew’al of the fight. 

Bridgenorth intei rupted any further progress of this menaced hos- 
tility. Julian Peveril,” he said, “ thou art free to walk thine own 
path, since thou wdlt not walk with me that road which is more 
sate, as well as more honorable. But if you do by my counsel, you 
W’ill get soon beyond the British seas.” 

‘‘Ralph Bridgenorth,” said one of his friends, “this is but evil 
and feeble conduct on thine own part. Wilt thou withhold thj’ 
hand from the battle, to defend, from these sons of Belial, the cap- 
tive of thy bow and of thy speai ? Surely w’e are enow' to deal with 
them in the security of our good old cause; nor should we part with 
this spawn of the old serpent, until we essay whether the Lord 
will not give us victoiy therein.” 

A hum of stern assent. followed; and had not Ganlesse now inter- 
fered, the combat would probably have been renewed. He took the 
advocate for war apart into one of the window’ recesses, and appar- 
ently satisfied his objections; for as he returned jto his companions, 
he said to them, “ Our friend hath so well argued this matter, that, 
verily, since he is of the same mind with the worthy Major Bridge- 
north, 1 think the youth may be set at liberty.” 

As no further objection was offered, it only remained with Julian 


254 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


to tliank and reward those who had been active in his assistance. 
Having first obtained from Bridgenorth a promise of indemnity to 
them for the riot they had committed, a few kind words conveyed 
his sense of their services; and some broad pieces, thrust into 1 he 
hand of Lance Outram, furnished the' means for affording them a 
holiday. They would have remained to protect him, but, fearful of 
further disorder, and relyins: entirely on the good faith of Major 
Bridgenorth, he dismissed them all excepting Lance, whom he de- 
tained to attend upon him tor a few minutes, till he should depart 
from Moultrassie. But ere leaving the hall, he could not lepress his 
desire to speak with Bridgenorth in secret; and advancing toward 
him, he expressed such a desire. 

Tacitl}^ granting what was asked of him, Bridgenorth led the way 
to a small summer saloon adjoining to the hall, where, with his 
usual gravity and indifference of manner, he seemed to await in 
silence what Peveril had to communicate. 

Julian found it difficult, whdi’e so little opening was afforded him, 
to find a tone in which to open the subjects he had al, heart, that 
should be at once dignified and conciliating. “ Major Bridgenorth," 
he said at length, “ you have been a son, and an affectionate one — 
You may conceive my present anxiety — My father! What has been 
designed for him?” 

“ What the law will,” answered Bridgenorth. “ Had he walked 
by the counsels which 1 procured to be given to him, he might have 
dwelt safely in the house of his ancestors. His fate is now beyond 
my control— far beyond yours. It must be with him as his country 
shall decide.” 

“ And my mother?” said Peveril. 

“ Will consult, as she has ever done, her own duty; and create 
her own happiness by doing so,” replied Bridgenorth. “Believe, 
my designs toward your family are better than they may seem 
through the mist which adversity has spread around your house. 1 
may triumph as a man; but as a man 1 must also remember, in my 
hour, that mine enemies have had theirs. Have you aught else to 
say?” he added, alter a momentary pause. “ You hav^e rejected 
once, yea, and again, the hand 1 stretched out to you. Methinks 
little more remains between us.” 

These words, which seemed to cut short fiiither discussion, were 
calmly spoken; so that though they appeared to discourage further 
question, they coulrl not interrupt that which still trembled on 
Julian’s tongue. He made a step or two toward the dooi ; then sud- 
denly returned. “ Your daughter?” he said — “ Major Bridgenorfh 
— 1 should ask— 1 do ask forgiveness for mentioning her name —but 
may I not inquire after her? May I not express my wishes for her 
future happiness?” 

“ Your interest in her is but too flattering,” said Bridgenorth; 
“ but you have already chosen your part; and you musl be, in 
future, strangers to each other. ‘l may have wished it otherwise, 
but the hour is grace is passed, during which your compliance with 
my advice might — 1 will speak it plainly — have led to your union. 
For her happiness— if such a word belongs to mortal pilgrimage — 1 
shall care Cor it sufficiently. She leaves this place to-dav, under 
the guardianship of a sure fiieml,” 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 255 

“ Not of V” exclaimed Peveril, and stopped short; foi he felt 

he had no right to pronounce the name which came to his lips. 

“ Why do you pause?” said Bridgenorth; “ a sudden thouglit is 
often a wise, almost always an honest one. With whom did you 
suppose 1 meant to intrust my child, that the idea called forlli so 
anxious an expression?” 

“Again 1 should ask your forgiveness,” said Julian, “for 
meddling where 1 hnve little right to interfere. But 1 saw a face 
here that is known to me — the person calls himself Ganlesse— Is it 
with him that you mean to intrust your daughter?” 

“ Even to the person who calls himself Ganlesse,” said Bridge- 
north, without expressing either anger or surprise. 

“ And do you know to whom you commit a charge so precious to 
all who know her, and so dear to yourself?” said Julian. 

“ Do you know, who ask me the question?” answered Bridgenorth. 

“ I own 1 do notr,” answered Julian ; “ but 1 have seen him in a 
character so different from what he now wears, that 1 feel it my 
duty to warn you how you intrust the charge of your child to one 
who can alternately play the profligate or the hypocrite, as it suits 
his own interest or humor.” 

Bridgenorth smiled contemptuously. “ 1 might be angry,” he 
said, “ with the oflicious zeal which supposes that its green concep- 
tions can instruct n\Y gray hairs; but, good Julian,! do but only 
ask from you the liberal construction, that 1, who have had much 
converse with mankind, know with whom 1 trust what is dearest to 
me. He of whom thou speakest hath one visage to his friends, 
though he may have others to the world, living amongst those before 
whom honest features should be concealed under a grotesque vizard; 
even as in the sinful sports of the day, called maskings and mum- 
meries, where the wise, if he show himself at all, must be contented 
to play the apish and fantastic fool.” 

“ I would only pray your wisdom to beware,” said Julian, “ of 
one, who, as he has a vizard for others, may also have one which 
can disguise his real features from you yourself.” 

“ This is being over careful, young man,” replied Bridgenorth, 
more shortly than he had liitherto spoken; “ if you would walk by 
my counsel, you will attend to yaur own affairs, which, credit me, 
deserve all your care, and leave others to the management of theirs. ” 

This was too plain to be misunderstood ; and Peveril was compelled 
to take his leave of Bridgenorth and of Moultrassie Hall, williout 
further parley or explanation. The reader may imagine how oft ho 
looked back, and tried to guess, amongst the lights which continued 
to twinkle in various parts of the building, which sparkle it was 
that gleamed from the bower of Alice. When the road turned into 
another direction, he sunk into a deep reverie, from which he was at 
length roused by the voice of Lance, who demanded where he in- 
tended to quarter for the night. He was unprepared to answer the 
question, but the honest keeper himself prompted a solution of tlie 
problem, by requesting that he would occupy a spare bed in the 
ledge; to which Julian willingly agreed. The rest of the inhabit- 
ants liad retired to rest when they entered; but Dame Ellesmere, 
apprized by a messenger of her nephew’s hospitable intent, had 
every thing in the best readiness she could for the sou of her an- 


256 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


cient patron. Peveril betook liimselt to rest; and, notwithstanding 
so many subjects ot anxiety, slept soundly till the morning was far 
advanced. 

His slumbers were first broken by Lance, who had been long up, 
and already active in his service. He informed him that his horse, 
arms, and small cloak-bag, had been seat from the Castle by one of 
Major Bridgenorth’s servants, who brought a letter, discharging 
from the major’s service the unfortunate Deborah Debbitch, and 
prohibiting her return to the hall. The oilicei’ of the House ot 
Commons, escorted by a strong guard, had left Martiudale Castle 
that morning early, traveling in Sir Geoffrey’s Carriage — his lady 
being also permitted to attend on him. To this he had to add, that 
the property at the castle was taken possession of by Master Win- 
the-tight, the attorney, from Chesterffeld, with other officers of the 
law, in name of Major Bridgenoith, a large creditor of the unfortu- 
nate knight. 

Having told these Job’s tidings, Lance paused; and, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation declared he was resolved to quit the country, and 
go up to London along with his young master. Julian argued the 
point with him; and insisted he had better stay to take charge ot his 
aunt, in case she should be disturbed by these strangers. Tjance re- 
plied, “ 8he would have one with her who would protect her well 
enough; for there was wherewithal 1o buy protection amongst them. 
But for himself, he was resolved to follow Master Julian to the 
death.” 

Julian heartily thanked him for his love. 

” Nay, it is not altogether out ot love neither,” said Lance, 
‘‘ though 1 am as loving as another; but it is, as it were, partl}^ out 
ot tear, lest 1 be called over the coals for last night’s matter; for as 
for the miners, they will never trouble them, as the creatures only 
act after their kind.” 

” I will write in your behalf to Major Bridgenorth, who is bound 
to afford you protection, if you have such fear,” said Julian. 

“ Nay, for that matter, it is not altogether fear, more than 
altogether love,” answered the enigmatical keeper, “ although it hath 
a tasting of both in it. And, to speak plain trulh, thus it is— Dame 
Debbitch and Naimt Ellesmere have resolved to set up their horses 
together, and have made up all their quarrels. And of all ghosts in 
the world, the worst is, when an old true-love comes back to haunt 
a poor fellow like me. IMistress Deborah, though distressed enow 
tor the loss of her place, has been already speaking ot a broken six- 
pence, or some such token, as it a man could remember such things 
for so many years, even it she had not gone over seas, like a wood- 
cock, in the meanwhile.” 

.lulian could scarce forbear laughing. “ 1 thought you too much 
of a man, Lance, to fear a woman mairying you whether you would 
or no.” 

” It has been many an honest man’s luck, for all that,” said 
Lance ‘‘ and a woman in the very house has so many deuced op- 
portunities. And then there would be two upon one; for Naunt, 
though high enough when any of your folks are concerned, hath 
some look to the main chance; and it seems Mistress Deb is as rich 
as a Jew,” 


PEVETIIL OF THE PEAK. 257 

“ And you, Lance,” said Julian, ‘‘have no mind to marry for 
cake and pudding. ” 

” No, truly, master,” answered Lance, ‘‘ unless 1 knew of what 
dough they were baked. How the devil do 1 know how the jade 
came by so much? And then if she speaks of tokens and love- pas- 
sages, let her be the same tight lass 1 broke the sixpence with,' and 1 
will be the same true lad to her. But 1 never heard of true love 
lasting ten years; and hers, if it lives at all, must be nearer 
twenty.” 

“ well, then, Lance,” said Julian, “ since you are resolved on the 
thing, we will go to London together; where, if I cannot retain you 
in my service, and if my father recovers not these misfortunes, 1 will 
endeavor to promote you elsewhere.” 

” Na}^ nay,” said Lance, ” 1 trust to be back to bonny Martindale 
before it is long, and to keep the greenwood, as 1 have been wont to 
do; for, as to i)ame Debbitch, when they have not me for their com- 
mon butt, Naunt and she will soon bend bows on each other. So 
here comes old T'Jame Ellesmere with your breakfast. 1 will but 
give some directions about the deer to Bough Ralph, my helper, and 
saddle my forest pony, and your honor’s horse, which is no prime 
one, and we will be ready to trot.” 

Julian was not sorry for this addition to his establishment; for 
Lance had shown himself, on the preceding evening, a shrewd nnd 
bold fellow, and attached to his master. He therefore set himself to 
reconcile his aunt to parting with her nephew for some time. Her 
unlimited devotion for ” the family,” readily induced the old lady 
to acquiesce in his proposal, though not without a gentle sigh over 
the ruins of a castle in the air, which was founded on the well-saved 
purse of Mistress Deborah Debbitch. ” At any rate,” she thought, 
” it was as well that Lance should be out of the way of that bold, 
long-legged, beggarly trollop, Cis Sellok.” But to poor Deb her- 
self, the expatriation of Lance, whom she had looked to as a sailor 
to a port under his lee, for which he can run, if weather becomes 
foul, was a second severe blow, following close on her dismissal from 
the profitable service of Major Bridgenorth. 

Julian visited the disconsolate damsel, in hopes of gaining some 
light upon Bridgenorth ’s projects regarding his daughter— the char- 
acter of this Ganlesse — and other matters, with which her residence 
in the family might have made her acquainted; but he found her by 
far too much troubled in mind to afford him the least information 
The name of Ganlesse she did not seem to recollect — that of Alice 
rendered her hysterical — that of Bridgenorth, furious. She num- 
bered up the various services she had rendered in the family — and 
denounced the plague of swartness to the linen — of leanness to the 
poultry — of dearth and dishonor to the house keeping — and of linger- 
ing sickness and early death to Alice; — all which evils, she averred, 
had only been kept oft by her continued, watchful, and incessant 
cares. Then again turning to the subject of tin; fugitive Lance, she 
expressed such a total contempt of that mean-spirited fellow, in a 
tone between laughing and crying, as satisfied Julian it was not a 
topic likely to act as a sedative; and that, therefore, unless he made 
a longer slay than the urgent state of his affairs permitted, he was 
not liKely to find Mistress Deborah in such a state of composure as 
» 


258 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


might enable him to obtain from her any rational or useful informa- 
tion. 

Lance, who good-naturedly took upon himself the whole burden 
of Dame Debbitch’s mental alienation, or ‘‘ taking on,” as such fits 
of passio Jiystei'ica are usually termed in the country, had too much 
feeling to present himself before the victim of her own sensibility, 
and of his obuuracy. He therefore intimated to Julian, by his 
assistant Kalph, that the horses stood saddled behind the lodge, and 
that all was ready for their departure. 

Julian took the hint, and they were soon mounted, and clearing 
the road, at a rapid trot, in the direction of London; but not Oy the 
most usual route. Julian calculated that the carriage in which his 
father was transported would travel slowly ; and it was his purpose, 
if possible, to get* to London before it should arrive there, in order to 
liave time to consult with the friends of his family, what measures 
should be taken in his father’s behalf. 

In this manner, they advanced a day’s journey toward Lohdon; 
at the conclusion of which, Julian found his resting-place in a small 
inn upon the road. No one came, at the first call, to attend upon 
the guests and their horses, although the house was well lighted up; 
and there was a prodigious chattering in the kitchen, such as pan 
only be produced by a French cook, when his m 3 '^stery is in the very 
moment of projection. It instantly occurred to Julian — so rare was 
the ministry of these Gallic artists at that time — that the clamor he 
heard must necessarily be produced by the Sieur Chaubert, on whose 
plats he had lately feasted, along with Smith and Ganlesse. 

One, or both of these, were therefore probably in the little inn; 
and if so, he might have some opportunity to discover their real 
purpose and character, flow to avail himself of such a meeting, he i 
knew not; but chance favored him more than he could have ex- 
pected. 

“ 1 can scarce receive you, gentlefolks,” said the landlord, who at ' 
length appeared at the door; ” here be a sort of quality in my house - 
to-night, whom less than all will not satisfy; nor all neither, for 
that matter.” 

“We are but plain fellows, landlord,” said Julian; “we are 
bound for Moseley market, and can get iro further to-night. Any 
liole will serve us, no matter what.” 

“ f^hy,” said the honest host, “ if that be the case, 1 must e’en 
put one of you behind the bar, though the gentlemen have desired- 
to be private; the other must take heart of grace, and help me at the 
tap. ’ ’ 

“ The tap for me,” said Lance, without waiting his master’s de- ‘ 
cision. “ It is an element which 1 could live and die in.” 

“ The bar, then, for me,” said Peveril; and stepping back, wdiis- 
pered to Lance to exchange cloaks with him, desirous, if possible to 
avoid being recognized. 


The exchange was made in an instant; and presently afterward the 
landlord brought a light; and as he guided Julian into his hostelry, 
cautioned him to sit quiet in the place where he should stow him ; 
and if he was discovered, to say that he was one of the house, and 
leava him to make it good. “ You will hear what the gallants say,” 






PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


259 

he added; “ but 1 think thou wilt carry away but little on it; for 
when it is not French, it is court gibberish; and that is as hard to 
construe.” 

The bar, into which our hero was inducted on these conditions, 
seemed formed, with respect to the public room, upon the principle 
of a citadel, intended to observe and briale a rebellious capital. 
Here sat the host on the Saturday evenings, screened from the ob- 
servation of his guests, yet with the power of observing both their 
wants and their behavior, and also that of overhearing their conver- 
sation— a practice which he was much addicted to, beine; one of that 
numerous class of philanthropists^ to whom their neighbors’ business 
is of as mutdi consequence, or rather more, than their own. 

Here he planted his new guest, with a repeated caution not to dis- 
turb the gentlemen by speech or motion; and a promise that he 
should be speedily accommodated with a cold buttock of leet, and 
a tankard of home-brewed. And here he left him with no other 
light than that which glimmered from the well-illuminated apart-- 
ment within, through a sort of shuttle which accommodated the 
landlord with a view into it. 

This situation, inconvenient enough in itself, was, on the present 
occasion, precisely what Julian would have selected. He wrapped 
himself in the weather-beaten cloak of Lance Outram, which had 
been stained, by age and weather, into a thousand variations from 
its original Lincoln green; and with as little noise as he could, set 
himself to observe tire two inmates, wdio had engrossed to ihem- 
selves the whole of the apartment, which was usually open to the 
public. They sat by a table, well covered with such costly rarities 
as could only have been procured by much forecast, and prepared 
by the exquisite Mons. Chaubert ; to which both seemed to do much . 
justice. 

Julian had little difficulty in ascertaining, that one of the travel- 
ers was, as he had anticipated, the master of the said Chaubert, or, 
as he was called b}^ Ganlesse, Smith; the other, who faced him, he 
had never seen before. This last w'as dressed like a gallant of the 
first order. His periwig, indeed, as he traveled on horseback, did 
not much exceed in size the bar-wig of a modern lawyer; but then 
the essence which he shook from it with every motion, impregnated 
a whole apartment, which was usually only perfumed by that vul- 
gar herb, tobacco. His riding-coat was laced in the newest and 
most courtly style; and Graminont himself might have envied the 
embroidery of his waistcoat, and the peculiar cut of his breeches, 
which buttoned above the knee, permitting the shape of a very hand- 
some leg to be completely seen. This, by the proprietor thereof, had 
been stretched out upon a stool, and he contemplated its proportions, 
from time to time, with infinite satisfaction. 

The conversation betw^een these worthies was so interesting, that 
we propose to assign to it another chapter. 


260 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


CHAPTER XXVIl. 

This is some creature of the elements, 

Most like your sea-gull. He can wheel and whistle 
His screaming song, e’en when the storm is loudest — 

Take for his sheeted couch the restless foam , 

Of the wild wave-crest — slumber in the calm, 

And dally with the storm. Yet ’tis a gull, 

An arrant gull, with all this. — The Chieftain. 

' “ And here is to thee,” said the fashionable gallant whom we 

have described, “ honest Tom; and a cup of welcome to thee out of 
Looby -land. Why, thou hast been so long in the country, that thou 
hast got a bumpkinly clod -compelling sort of look thyself. That 
gieasy doublet fits thee as if it were thy reserved Sunday’s apparel; 
and the points seem as it they were stay-laces bought tor thy true- 
love Marjory. 1 marvel thou canst still relish a ragout. Methinks 
now, to a stomach bound in such a jacket, eggs and bacon were a 
diet more conforming.” 

“ Rally away, my good lord, while wit lasts,” answered his com- 
panion; ” yours is not the sort of ammunition which will bear much 
expenditure. Or rather, tell me news from comt, since we have 
met so opportunely. ’ ’ 

“You would have asked me these an hour ago,” said the lord, 
” had not your very soul been under Chaubert’s coveied dishes. 
You remembered king’s affairs will keep cool, and entre-mets must 
be eaten hot.” 

‘‘Not so, my lord; 1 only kept common talk whilst that eaves- 
Hi opping rascal of a landlord was in the room; so that, now the 
coast is clear once more, I pray you for news from court.” 

‘‘The Plot is nonsuited,” answered the courtier — ‘‘Sir George 
Wakeman acquitted* — the witnesses discredited by the jury — 
Scroggs, who ranted on one side, is now ranting on t’other.” 

‘‘ Rat the Plot, Wakeman, witnesses. Papists, and Protestants, all 
together! Do you think ,1 care for such trash as that? Till the 
Plot comes up the palace back-stair, and gets possession of old Row- 
ley’s own imagination, 1 care not a farthing who believes or dis- 
believes. 1 hang by him will bear ine out.” 

‘‘ Well, then,” said my lord, ‘‘ the next news is Rochester’s dis- 
grace,” 

‘‘ Disgraced! How, and for what? The morning 1 came off. He 
stood as" fair as any one. ” 

‘‘That’s over— -the epitaph f has broken his neck — and now he 
may write one for his own court favor, for it is dead and buried.” 

* See Note U. First Check to the Plot. 

t The epitaph alluded to is the celebrated epigram made by Rochester on 
Charles H. It was composed at the king’s request, who nevertheless resented 
its poignancy. The lines are well known 

“ Here lies our sovereign lord the king. 

Whose w'ord no man I'elies on, 

Who never said a foolish thing, 

And never did a wise one,” 


rEVERIL OF THE PEAK, ' 


261 

“ The epitaph!’- exclaimed Tom; “ why, 1 was by when it was 
made; and it passed for an excellent good jest with him whom it 
was made upon. ” 

“Ay, so it did amongst ourselves,” answered his companion; 
“ but it got abroad, and had a run like a mill-race. It was in every 
coliee-house, and in halt the diurnals. Grammont translated it into 
French too; and there is no laughing at so sharp a jest, when it is 
dinned into 3’’our ears on all sides. So, disgraced is the author; and 
but for his Grace of Buckingham the court would be as dull as my 
lord chancellor’s wig.” 

“ Or as the head ft covers. Well, my lord, the fewer at court, 
there is the more room for those that can bustle there. But there 
are-two main strings of Shaftesbury’s dddle broken— the Popish Plot 
fallen into discredit— and Bochester disgraced. Changeful times — 
but here is to the little man who shall mend them.” 

“1 apprehend you,” replied his lordship; “ and meet j^our health 
with my love. Trust me, my lord loves you, and longs for you. 
Nay, 1 have done you reason. By your leave, the cup is with me. 
Here to his buxom Grace of Bucks.” 

“ As blithe a peer,” said Smith, “ as ever turned night to day. 
“Nay, it shall be an overflowing bumpisr, an you will; and 1 will 
(Xrmyi ii super naciilwn. And how stands the great madam?” * 

“ Stoutly against all change,” answered my lord — “Little An- 
thony f can make nought of her.” 

“ Then he shall bring her influence to nought. Hark in thine 
ear. Thou knowest ” — (here he whispered so low that Julian could 
not catch the sound.) 

“ Know him?” answered the other. “ Know Ned of the Island? 
To be sure 1 do. ” 

“ He is the man that shall knot the great fiddlestrings that have 
snapped. Say 1 told you so; and thereupon 1 give thee his health.” 

‘ ‘ And thereupon I pledge thee, ’’said the young nobleman, ‘ ‘ which 
on any other argument 1 were loath to do — thinking of Ned as some- 
what the cut of a villain.” 

“ Granted, man — granted,” said the other, — “ a very thorough- 
paced rascal; but able, my lord, able and necessary; and, in this 
plan, indispensable. Pshaw! This champagne turns stronger as it 
gets older, 1 think.” 

“ Hark, mine honest fellow,” said the courtier; “ 1 would thou 
wouldst give me some item of all this mystery. Thou hast it, I 
know; for whom do men intrust but trusty Chiffinch?” 

“ It is your pleasure to say so, my lord,” answered Smith (whom 
we shall hereafter call by his real name of Chiffinch) with much 
drunken gravity, for his speech had become a little altered by his 
copious libations in the course of the evening,— “ few men know 
more, or say less, than I do; and it well becomes my station. Con- 
ticuere omnes, as the grammar hath it — all men should learn to hold 
their tongue.” 

* The Duchess of Portsmouth, Charles TI.’s favorite mistress; very unpopu- 
lar at the time of that Popish Plot, as well from her religion as her country, 
being a Fi*enchwoman and a Catholic. 

t Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, the politician and intriguer 
of the period. ' 


262 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ Except with a friend, Tom— except with a friend. Thou wilt 
never be such a dog-bolt as to refuse a hint to a friend ! Come, you 
get loo wise and statesman-like for your office —the ligatures of thy 
most peasantly jacket there are like to burst with thy secret. Come, 
undo a button, man; it is for the health of thy constitution. Let 
out a reef ; and let thy chosen friend know what is meditating. 
Thou knowest I am as true as thyself to little Anthony, if he can 
but get uppermost.” 

‘‘ If, thou lordly infidel!” said Chiffinch — “ talk’st thou to me of 
ifs ? There is neither if nor and in the matter. The great madam 
shall be pulled a peg down— the great Plot screwed a peg or two 
up. Thou knowest Ked? Honest Ned had a brother’s death to re- 
venge.” 

” 1 have heard so,” said the nobleman; “ and that his persever- 
ing resentment of that iujuiy was one of tnc few points which 
seemed to be a sort of heathenish virtue in bim. ’ ’ 

“Well,” continued Chiffinch, “in maneuvering to bring about 
this revenge, which he hath labored at many a day, he hath discov- 
ered a treasure. ’ ’ 

“ What! In the Isle of Man?” said his companion. 

“ Assure j^ourself of it. She is a creature so lovely, that she 
needs but to be seen to put down every one of the favorites, from 
Portsmouth and Cleveland down to that three-penny baggage, Mis- 
tress Nelly.” 

“ By my word, Chiffinch,” said my lord, “ that is a re-enforce- 
ment after the fashion of thine own best tactics. But bethink thee, 
man ! 1 o make such a conquest, there wants more than a cherry- 
cheek and a bright eye — there must be wit —wit, man, and manners, 
and a little sense beside, to keep influence when it is gotten.” 

“Pshaw! will you tell me what goes to this vocation?” said 
Chiffinch. “ Here, pledge me her health in a brimmer. Nay, you 
shall do it on knees, too. Never such a triumphant beauty w^as seen 
— I went to church on purpose, for the first time these ten years. 
Yet 1 lie, it was not to church neither — it was to chapel.” 

“To chapel! What the devil, is she a Puritan?” exclaimed the 
other courtier. 

“ To be sure she is. Do you think I would be accessory to bring- 
ing a Papist into favor in these times, when, as my good Lord said 
in the House, there should not be a Popish man-servant, nor a 
Popish maid-servant, not so much as dog or cat, left to bark or mew 
about the king!”* 

“But consider, Chiffle, the dislikelihood of her pleasing,” said 
the noble courtier. “ What! old Rowley, with his wit, and love of 
wit — his wildness and love of wildness — he form a league with a 
silly, scrupulous, unidea’d Puritan! Not if she were Venus.” 

“ Thou knowest naught of the matter,” answered Chiffinch. “ 1 
tell thee, the fine contrast between the seeming saint and falling 
sinner will give zest to the old gentleman’s inclinations. If 1 do not 
know him, who does? Her health, my lord, on your bare knee, as 
you would live to be of the bed-chamber.” 

“ 1 pledge you most devoutly,” answered his friend. “ But you 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 263 

have not told me how the acquaintance is to be made; for you can- 
not, 1 think, carry her to Wliitehall.” 

“ Aha, my dear lord, you would have the whole secret but that 1 
cannot aflord — 1 can spare a friend a peep at my ends, but no one 
must look on the means by which they are achieved.” So saying, 
he shook his drunken head most wisely. 

The villainous design which this discourse implied, and which his 
heart told him was designed against Alice Bridgenorth, stirred Julian 
so extremely, that he involuntarily shifted his posture, and laid his 
hand on his sword hilt. 

Chiffinch heard a rustling, and broke off, exclaiming, ‘‘Hark! 
Zounds, something moved. 1 trust 1 have told the tale to no ears 
but thine.” 

” 1 will cut off any which have drunk in but a syllable of thy 
words,” said the nobleman; and raising a candle, he took a hasty 
survey of the apartment. Seeing nothing that could incur his 
menaced resentment, he replaced the light and continued: ” Well, 
suppose that Belle Louise de Querouaille* shoots from her high sta- 
tion in the firmament, how will you rear up the downfalleii Plot again 
—for without that same Plot, think of it as thou wilt, we have no 
change of hands — and matters remain as they were, with a Prot- 
estant courtesan instead of a Papist. Little Anthony can but little 
speed without that Plot of his. 1 believe in my conscience, he begot 
it himself.” f 

“ Whoever begot it,” said Chiffinch, ” he hath adopted it; and a 
thriving babe it has been to him. Well, then, though it lies out of 
my way, 1 will play Saint Peter again — up with t’other key, and un- 
lock t’other mystery.” 

” Now thou speakest like a good fellow; and 1 will, with my own 
hands, unwire this fresh flask, to begin a brimmer to the success of 
thy achievement. ” 

“ Well, then,” continued the communicative Chiffinch, ” thou 
knowest that they have long had a nibbling at the old Countess of 
Derby. So Ned was sent down — he owes her an old account, thou 
knowest — with private instructions to possess himself of the island, 
if he could, by help of some of his old friends. He hath ever kept 
up spies upon her; anU happy man was he, to think his hour of 
vengeance was come so nigh. But he missed his blow; and the old 
girl being placed on her guard, was soon in a condition to make 
Ned smoke for it. Out of the island he came with little advantage 
for having entered it; when, by some means — for the devil, 1 think, 
stands ever his friend — he obtained information concerning a mes- 
senger, whom her old IVIajesty of Man had sent to London to make 
party in her behalf. Ned stuck himself to this fellow— a raw, half- 
breed lad, son of an old blundering Cavalier of the old stamp, down 
in Derbyshire — and so managed the swain, that he brought him to 
the place where 1 was waiting, in anxious expectation of the pretty 
one 1 told you of. By Saint Anthony, for 1 will swear by no meaner 

* Charles’s principal mistress en titre. She was created Duchess of Ports- 
mouth. 

+ Shaftesbury himself is supposed to have said that he knew not who was the 
inventor of the Plot, but that he himself had all the advantage of the discovery. 


264 


1>EVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


oath, I stared when I saw this great iout — not that the fellow is so 
ill-looked neither — 1 stared like — like — good now, help me to a 
simile.” 

“Like Baint Anthony’s pig, an it were sleek,” said the young 
lord; “your eyes, Chiffie, have the very blink of one. But what 
hath all this to do with the Plot? Hold— 1 have had wine enough. ” 

“You shall not balk me,” said Chifflnch; and a jingling was 
heard, as if he were filling his comrade’s glass with a very unsteady 
hand. “Hey. What the devil is the matter? 1 used to carry my 
glass steady — very steady.” 

“Well, but this stranger?” 

“ Why, he swept at game and ragout as he would at spring beef 
or summer mutton. Never saw so unnurtured a cub. Knew no 
more what he ate than an infidel. 1 cursed him by my gods when 1 
saw Chaubert’s chef-d’ceuvres glutted down so indillerent a throat. 
We took the freedom to spice his goblet a little, and ease him of his 
packet of letters ; and the fool went on his way the next morning 
with a budget artificially filled with gray paper. Ned would have 
kept him, in hopes to have made a witness of him, but the boy was 
not of that mettle.” 

“ How will you prove your letters?” said the courtier. 

“La you there my lord,” said Chifflnch; “one may see with 
half an eye, for all your laced doublet, that you have been of the 
family of Furnival’s, before your brother’s death sent you to Ccurt. 
How prove the letters? Why, we have but let the sparrow fly with 
a string round his foot. We have him again so soon as we list.” 

“ Why, thou art turned a very Machiavel, Chifflnch,” said his 
friend. “ But how if the youth prove restive? i have heard these 
Peak men have hot heads and hard hands.” 

“Trouble not yourself — that was cared for, my lord,” said 
Chifflnch — “ his pistols might bark, but they could not bite.” 

‘ ‘ Most exquisite Chifflnch, thou art turned micher as well as pad- 
der. Canst both rob a man and kidnap him?” 

“Micher and padder — what terms be these?” said Chifflnch. 
“ Methmks these are sounds to lug out upon. You will have me 
angry to the degree of falling foul — robber and kidnapper!” 

“ You mistake verb for noun-substantive,” replied his lordship; 
“ I said rob and kidnap— man may do either once and away with- 
out being a professional.” 

“ But not without spilling a little foolish noble blood, or some 
such red-colored gear,” said Chifflnch, starting up. 

“ Oh, yes,” said his lordship; “ all this may be without these 
direful consequences, and as you will find to-morrow, when you re- 
turn to England; for at present you are in the land of Champagne, 
Chiffle; and that you may continue so, 1 drink thee this parting cup 
to line thy nightcap.” 

“ I do not refuse your pledge,” said Chiffluch; “ but 1 drink to 
thee in dudgeon and in hostility. It is a cup of wrath, and a gage 
of battle. To-morrow, by dawn, 1 will have thee at point of fox, 
wert thou the last of the -Bavilles. What the devil! think you 1 fear 
you because you are a lord?” 

“ Not so, Chifflnch,” answered his companion. “ 1 know thou 


PEVEllIL OF THE PEAK. 265 

fearest nothing but beans and bacon, washed down with bumpkin- 
like beer. Adieu, sweet Chifflnch— to bed— ChirBuch— to bed,” 

So saying, he lifted a candle, and left the apai’tment. And 
Chifflnch, whom the last diaught had nearly overpowered, had just 
strength enough left to do the same, muttering, as he staggered out, 
“ Yes, he shall answer it. Dawn of day? D— n me. It is come 
already. Y^onder’s the dawn. No, d— n me, ’tis the fire glancing 
on the cursed red lattice. 1 am whistled drunk, 1 think. This com^ 
of a country inn. It is the smell of the brandy in this cursed room. 
It could not be the wine. Well, old Rowley sliall send me no more 
errands to the country again. Steady, steady.” 

So saying, he reeled out of the apartment, leaving Peveril to think 
over the extraordinary conversation he had just heard. 

The name of Chifflnch, the well-known minister of Charles’s 
pleasures, was nearly allied to the part which tie seemM about to 
play in the present intrigue; but that Christian, whom ^he had al- 
ways supposed a Puritan as strict as his brother-in-law, Bridgenorth, 
should be associated with him in a plot so infamous, seemed alike 
unnatural and monstrous. The near relationship might blind Bridge- 
north, and warrant him in confiding his daughter to such a man’s 
charge; but what a wretch he must be, that could coolly meditate 
such an ignominous abuse of his trust! In doubt whether he could 
credit for a moment the tale which Chifflnch had revealed, he hast- 
ily examined his packet, and found that the sealskin case in which 
it had been wrapped up, now only contained an equal quantity of 
waste paper. It he wanted further information, Ihe failure of the 
shot which he had fired at Bridgenorth, and of which the wadding 
only struck him, showed that his arms had been tampered with, 
lie examined the pistol which still remained charged, and found 
that the ball had been drawn. ” May I perish,” said he to himself> 
” amid these villainous intrigues, but thou shalt be more surely 
loaded, and to better purpose! The contents of these papers may 
undo my benefactress— their having been on me, may ruin my father 
— that I have been the bearer of them, may cost, in these fiery times, 
my own life— that 1 care least for— they form a branch of the 
scheme laid against the honor and happiness of a creature so inno- 
cent, that it is almost sin to think of her within the neighborhood 
of such infamous knaves. I will recover the letter at all risks. But 
how?— that is to be thought on. Lance is stout and trusty; and 
when a bold deed is once resolved upon, there never yet lacked the 
means of executing it.” 

His host now entered, with an apology for his long absence; and 
after providing Peveril with some refreshments, invited him to ac- 
cept, for his night-quarters, the accommodation of a remote hay-loft, 
which he was to share with his comrade; professing at the same time, 
he could hardly have afforded them this courtesy, but out of defer- 
ence to the exquisite talents of Lance Outram, as assistant at the tap; 
where, indeed, it seems probable that he, as well as the admiring 
landlord, did that evening contrive to drink nearly as much liquor 
as they drew.- 

But Lance was a seasoned vessel, on whom liquor made no last- 
ing impression; so that when Peveril awaked that trusty follower at 
dawn he found him cool enough to comprehend and enter into the 


266 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


design which he expressed, of recovering the letters which had been 
abstracted from his person. 

Having considered the whole matter with much attention, Lance 
shrugged, grinned, and scratched his head, and at length manfully- 
expressed his resolution. “ Well, my aunt speaks truth in her old 
saw, 

“ ‘ He that serves Peveril munna be slack. 

Neither for weather, nor yet for wrack.’ 

And then again, my good daime was wont to say, that whenever 
Peveril was in a broil, Outram was in a stew; so 1 will never bear a 
base mind, but even hold a part with you as my fathers have done 
with yours, for four generations, whatever more.” 

“ Spoken like a most gallant Outiam,” said Julian; “ and were 
we but rid of that puppy lord and his retinue, we two could easily 
deal with the other three.” 

“Two Londoners and a Frenchman?” said Lance, — “1 would 
take them in mine own hand. And as for my Lord Saville, as they 
call him, 1 heard word last, night that he and all his men of gilded 
gingerbread— that looked at an honest fellow like me, as if they 
were the ore and 1 the dross— are all to be off this morning to some 
races, or such like junketings, about Tutbury. It -was that brought 
him down here, where he met this other civet-cat by accident.” 

In truth, even as Lance spoke, a trampling was heard of horses in 
the yard, and from the hatch of their hay-loft, they beheld Lord 
Saville’s attendants mustered, and ready to set out as soon as he 
should make his appearance. 

” So-ho, Master Jeremy, ” said one of the fellows, to a sort of prin- 
cipal attendant, who just came out of the house, ‘‘methinks the 
wine has proved a sleeping-cup to my lord this morning.” 

“No,” answered Jeremy, “ he hath been up before light, writing 
letters tor London ; and to punish thy irreverence, thou, Jonathan, 
Shalt be the man to ride back with them.” 

“ And so to miss the race!” said Jonathan, sulkily; “ 1 thank you 
for this good turn, good Master Jeremy; and hang me if Iforaetit.” 

Further discussion was cut short by the appearance of the young 
nobleman, who, as he came out of the inn, said to Jeremy, “ These 
be the letters. Let one of the knaves ride to London lor life and 
death, and deliver them as directed; and the rest of them get to 
horse and follow me.” 

Jeremy gave Jonathan the packet with a malicious smile; and the 
disappointed groom turned his horse's head sullenly toward Lon- 
don, while Lord Saville, and the rest of his retinue, rode briskly off 
in an opposite direction, pursued by the benedictions of the host and 
his family, who stood bowing and couriesying at the door, in grati- 
tude, doubtless, for the receipt of an unconscionable reckoning:. 

It was full three hours after their departure, that Chiffinch 
lounged into the room in which they had supped, in a brocade night- 
gown, and green velvet cap, turned up with the most costly Brus- 
sels lace. He seemed but halt awake; and it was with drowsy voice 
that he called for a cup of cold small betir. His manner and appear- 
ance were those of a man who had wrestled hard with Bacchus on 
the preceding evening, and had scarce recovered the effects of his 
contest with the jolly god. Lance, instructed by his master to watch 


PEVERTL OF THE PEAK. 


267 

Ihe motions of the courtier, officiously attended with the cooling 
beverage he called for, pleading, as an excuse to the landlord, his 
wish to see a Londoner in his morning-gown and cap. 

No sooner had Chiffinch taken his morning draught, than he in- 
quired after Lord Saville. » 

“ Jlis lordship was mounted and away by peep of dawn,” was 
Lance’s reply. 

‘‘ What, the devil!” exclaimed Chiffinch; “why, this is scarce 
civil. What! off for the races with his whole retinue?” 

” All but one,” replied Lance, ‘‘ whom his lordship sent back to 
London with letters.” 

‘‘To London with letters!” said Chiffinch. ‘‘ AVhy, 1 am tor 
London, and could have saved his express a labor. But stop — hold 
— 1 begin to recollect — d — n, can 1 have blabbed? 1 have — I have 
— 1 remember it all now. 1 have blabbed; and to the very weazel 
of the Court, who sucks the yelk out of every man’s secret. Furies 
and fire— that my afternoons should ruin my mornings thus! I 
must turn boon companion and good fellow in my cups — and have 
my confidences and my quarrels — my friends and my enemies, with 
a plague to me, as if any one could do a man much good oi harm 
but his own self. His messenger must be sto])ped, though— 1 will 
put a spoke in his wheel. Hark ye, drawer-fellow— call my groom 
hither— call Tom Beacon.” 

Lance obeyed; but failed not, when he had introduced the domes- 
tic, to remain in the apartment, in order to hear what should pass 
betwixt him and his master. 

‘‘ Haik, 5 ’’e, Tom,” said Chiffinch, ‘‘ here are five pieces for you.” 

‘‘ What’s to be done now, 1 trow?” said Tom, without even the 
ceremony of returning thanks, which he was probably well aware 
would not be received even in part payment of tne debt he was in- 
curring. 

‘‘Mount your fleet nag, Tom— ride like the devil— overtaKe the 
groom whom Lord Saville dispatched to London this morning — 
lame his horse— break his bones— fill him as drunk as the Baltic sea; 
or do whatever may best and most effectually stop his journey. 
Why does the lout stand there without answering me? Dost under- 
stand me?” 

” Why, ay, -Master Chiffinch,” said Tom; ‘‘ and so l am thinking 
doth this honest man here who need not have heard quite so much of 
your counsel an it had been your will.” 

” 1 am bewitched this morning” said Chiffinch to himself, “ or else 
the champagne runs in my head still. My brain has become tie very 
lowlands of Holland — a gillcup would inundate it. Hark thee, fel- 
low,” he added addressing Lance, ‘‘ keep my counsel— there is a 
wager betwixt Lord Saville and me which of us shall first have a let- 
ter in London. Here is to drink my health and bring luck on my 
side. Say nothing of it; but help Tom to his nag. Tom, ere thou 
startest come for thy credentials. 1 will give thee a letter to the 
Duke of Bucks that may be evidence thou wert first in town.” 

Tom Beacon ducked and exit; and Lance after having made some 
show of helping him to horse ran back to tell his master the joyful 
intelligence that a lucky accident had abated Chifiinch’s party to 
their own number. . . . 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. . 


268 

Peveril immediately ordered his horses to be got ready; and so 
soon as Tom Beacon was dispatched toward London on a rapid trot 
had the satisfaction to observe Chifflnch with his favorite Chaubert 
mount to pursue the same journey though at a more moderate rate. 
He permitted them to attain such a distance that they might be 
dogged without suspicion; then paid his reckoning, mounted his 
horse and followed, keeping his men carefully in view until he 
should come to a place proper for the enterprise which he meditated. 

it had been Peveril’s intention that when they came to some soli- 
tary part of the road they should gradually mend their pace until 
they overtook Chaubert — that Lance Outram should then drop be- 
hind in order to assail the; man of spits and stoves while he himself 
spurring onward should grapple with (^hiffinch. But this scheme 
presupposed that the master and servant should travel in the usual 
manner— -the latter riding a tew yards behind the former. Whereas 
such and so interesting were the subjects of discussion betwixt 
Chifflnch and the French cook that without heeding the rules of 
etiquette they rode on together amicably abreast carrying on a con- 
versation on the mysteries of the table which the ancient Comus or 
a modern gastronome might have listened to with pleasure. It was 
thei’efore necessary to venture on them both at once. 

For this purpose when they saw a long tract of road before them 
unvaried by the least appearance of man, beast or human habitation, 
they began to mend their pace that they might come up to Chifflnch 
witlmut giving him any alarm by a sudden and suspicious increase 
of haste. In this manner they lessened the distance which separated 
them till they were within about twenty yards, when Peveril, afraid 
that Chifflnch might recognize him at a nearer approach and so 
trust to his horse’s heels, made Lance the signal to charge. 

At the sudden increase of their speed, and the noise with which it 
was necessarily attended, Chifflnch looked around, but had time to 
do no more, for Lance, who had pricked his pony (which was much 
more speedy than Julian’s horse) into full gallop, pushed, without 
ceremony, betwixt the courtier and his attendant; and ere Chaubert 
had time for more than one exclamation, he upset both horse and 
Frenchman — mortbleu! thrilling from his tongue as'he rolled on the 
ground amongst the various articles of his occupation, which, escap- 
ing from the budget in which he bore them, lay tumbled upon the 
highway in strange disorder; while Lance, springing from his pal- 
frey, commanded his foeman to be still, under no less a penalty than 
that of death, if he attempted to rise. 

Before Chifflnch could avenge his trusty follower’s downfall, his 
own bridle was seized by Julian, who presented a pistol with the 
other hand, and commanded him to stand or die. 

Chifliuch, though effeminate, was no coward. He stood still as 
commanded, and said, with firmness, “ Rogue, you have taken me 
at surprise. If you are a highwayman, there is my purse. Do us 
no bodily harm, and spare the budget of spices and sauces.” 

” Look you, Master Chiffinch,” said Peveril, ” this is no time for 
dallying. 1 am no highwayman, but a man of honor. Give me 
back that packet which you stole from me the other night; or, by 
all that is good, 1 will send a brace of balls through you, and search 
for it at leisure. ” _ 


PEVERTL OE THE PEAK. 


269 

“'VVhat niglit? Wliat packet?” answered 'Cliifflnch, contused; 
yet willing to protract the time for the chance of assistance, or to 
put Peveril off his guard. ” 1 know nothing of whal. you mean. 
If you are a man of honor, let me draw my sword, and 1 will do you 
light, as a gentleman should do to another.” 

“Dishonorable rascal!” said Peveril, “you escape not in this 
manner. You plundered me when you had me at odds; and 1 am 
not the fool to let my advantage escape, now that my turn is come. 
Yield up the packet; and then, if jmu will, 1 will fight you on equal 
terms. But first,” he reiterated, “ yield up the packet, or 1 will in- 
stantly send you where the tenor of your life will be hard to answer 
for.” 

The tone of Peveril’s voice, the fierceness of his eye, and the man- 
ner in which he held the loaded weapon, within a hand’s-breadth of 
Chiffinch’s head, convinced the last there was neither room for com- 
promise, nor time for trifling. He thrust his hand into a side pocket 
of his cloak, and with visible reluctance, produced those papers and 
dispatches with which Julian had been intrusted by the Countess of 
Derby. 

“They are five in number,” said Julian; “and you have given 
me only four. Your life depends on full restitution.” 

“ It escaped from my hand,” said Chiffinch, producing the miss- 
ing document — “ There it is. Now, sir, your pleasure is fulfilled, 
unless,” he added, sulkily, “you design either murder or further 
robbery.” 

“ Base wretch!” said Peveril, withdrawing his pistol, yet keeping 
a watchful eye on Chifflneh’s motions, “ thou art unworthy any 
honest man’s sword; and yet, if you dare draw your own, as you 
proposed but now, 1 am willing to give you a chance upon fair 
equality of terms.” 

“Equality!” said Chiffinch, sneeringly; “yes a proper equality 
— sivord and pistol against single rapier, and two men upon one, for 
Cliaubert is no fighter. N o, sir ; 1 shall seek amends upon some 
more fitting occasion, and with more equal w^eapons.” 

“ By backbiting, or by poison, base pander I” said Julian; “ these 
are thy means of vengeance. But mark me — 1 know your vile pur- 
pose respecting a lady who is too worthy that her name should be 
uttered in such a w’^orthless ear. Thou hast done hie one injury, and 
thou see’st I have repaid it. But prosecute this further villainy, 
and be assured 1 wull put thee to death like a foul reptile, whose 
very slaver is fatal to humanity. Rely upon this, as if Machiavel 
had sworn it; for so surely as you keep your purpose, so surely will 
1 prosecute my revenge. Follow me, Lance, and leave him to think 
on what 1 have told him.” 

Lance had, after the first shock, sustained n very easy part in this 
renconter; for all he had to do, was to point the butt of his whip, in 
the manner of a gun, at the intimidated Frenchman, who, lying on 
his back, and gazing at random on the skies, had as little the power 
or purpose of resistance, as any pig which had ever come under his 
own slaughter-knife. 

Summoned by his master from the easy duty of guarding such an 
unresisting prisoner, Lance remounted his horse, and they both rode 
off, leaving their discomfited antagonists to console themselves for 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


270 

their misadventure as the}'’ best could. But consolation ’wa^ hard to 
come by in the circumstances. The French artist had to lament the 
dispersion of his spices, and the destruction of his magazine of sauces 
—an enchanter despoiled of his magic wand and talisman could 
scarce have been in more desperale extremity. Chifflnch had to 
mourn the downfall of his intrigue, and its premature discovery. 
“ To this fellow,, at least,” he thought, ” 1 can have bragged none 
—here my evil genius alone has betrayed me. W ith this infernal 
discovery, which may cost me so dear on all hands, champagne had 
naught to do. If there be a flask left unbroken, 1 will drink it after 
dinner, and try if it may not even yet suggest some scheme of re- 
demption and of revenge.” 

With this manly resolution, he prosecuted his journey to London. 


CHAPTER XXVlll. 

A man so various, that he seem’d to be 
Not one, but all mankind’s epitome ; 

Stiff in opinions— always in the wrong — 

Was every thing by starts, but nothing long; 

Who, in the course of one revolving moon. 

Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; 

Then, all for women, painting, fiddling, drinking; 

Besides a thousand freaks that died in thinking. 

Dryden, 

We must now transport the reader to the magnificent hotel in 

Street, inhabited at this time by the celebrated George Yillieis, 

Duke of Buckingham, whom I^ryden has doomed to a painful im- 
mortality by the few lines which we have prefixed to this chapter. 
Amid the gay and the licentious of the laughing court of Charles, 
the duke was the most licentious and most gay; yet, while expend- 
ing a princely fortune, a strong constitution, and excellent talents 
in pursuit of frivolous pleasures, he nevertheless nourished deeper 
and more extensive designs; in which he only failed from want of 
that fixed purpose and leijulated perseverance essential to all impor- 
tant jenterprises, but particularly in politics. 

It was long past noon; and the usual hour of the duke’s levee— if 
anything could be termed usual where all was irregular— had been 
long past. His hall was filled with lackeys and footmen, in the 
most splendid liveries; the interior apartments, with the gentlemen 
and pages of his household, arrayed as persons of the first quality, 
and, in that respect, rather exceeding than falling short of the duke 
in personal splendor. But his ante-chamber, in particular, might be 
compared to a gathering of eagles to the slaughter, were not the 
simile too dignified to express that vile race, who, by a hundred de- 
vices all tending to one common end, live upon the wants of needy 
greatness, or administer to lire pleasures of summer-teeming luxury, 
or stimulate the wild wishes of lavish and wasteful extravagance, 
by devising new modes and fresh motives of profusion. There stood 
the projector, with his mysterious brow, promising unbounded 
wealth to whomsoever might choose to furnish the small preliminary 
sum necessary to change egg-shells into the great arcanum. There 
was Captain Seagull, undertaker for a foreign settlement, with the 
map under his arm of Indian or American* kingdoms, beautiful as 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


27i 

the primitive Eden, waiting the bold occupants, for whom a gener- 
ous patron should equip two brigantines and a fly-boat. Thither 
came, fast and frequent, the gamesters, in their different forms and 
calling. This, light, young, gay in appearance, the thoughtless youth 
of wit and pleasure — the pigeon rather than the rook — but at heart 
the same sly, shrewd, cold-blooded calculator, as yonder old hard- 
featured professor of the same science, whose eyes are grown dim 
with watching the dice at midnight; and whose Angers are even now 
assisting his mental computation of chances and of odds. The flne 
arts, too — 1 would it were otherwise— had their professors amongst 
this sordid train. The poor poet, half ashamed, in spite of habit, of 
the part which he is about to perform, and abashed by consciousness 
at once of his base motive and his shabby black coat, lurks in yonder 
corner for the favorable moment to offer his dedication. Much bet- 
ter attired, the architect presents his splendid vision of front and 
wings, and designs a palace, the expense of which may transfer his 
emploj’^er to a jail. But uppermost of all, the favorite musician, or 
singer, who waits on my lord to receive, in solid gold, the value of 
the dulcet sounds which solaced the. banquet of the preceding even- 
ing. 

Such, and many such like, were the morning attendants of the 
Duke of Buckingham— all genuine descendants of the daughter of 
the horse-leech, whose cry is “ Give, give.” 

But the levee of his grace contained other and very different char- 
acters; and was indeed as various as his own opinions and pursuits. 
Besides many of the young nobility and wealthy gentry of England, 
who made his grace the glass at which they dressed themselves for 
the day, and who learned from him how to travel, with the newest 
and best grace, the general Road to Ruin, there "were others of a 
graver character — discarded statesmen, political spies, opposition 
orators, servile tools of administration, men who met not elsewhere, 
but who regarded the duke’s mansion as a sorl of neutral ground; 
sure, that if he was not of their opinion to-day, this very circum- 
stance rendered it most likely he should think with them to-morrow. 
The Puritans themselves did not shun intercourse with a man whose 
talents must have rendered him formidable, even if they had not 
been united with high rank and an immense fortune. Several crave 
personages, with black suits, short cloaks, and band-strings of a form- 
al cut, were mingled, as we see their portraits in a gallery of paint 
ings, among the gallants who ruffled in silk and embroidery. It is 
true, they escaped the scandal of being thought intimates of the 
duke, by their business being supposed to refer to money malters. 
Whether these grave and professing citizens mixed politics with 
money-lending, was not known; but it had been long observed that 
the Jews, who in general confine themselves to the latter department, 
had become for some time faithful attendants at the duke’s levee. 

It was high-tide in the ante-chamber, and had been so for more 
than an hour, ere the duke’s gentleman in ordinary ventured into 
his bedchamber, carefully darkened, so as to make midnight at 
noon-day, to know his grace’s pleasure. His soft and serene whis- 
per, in which he asked whether it were his grace’s pleasure to rise, 
was briefly and sharply answered by the counter questions, “ Who 
waits? What’s o’clock?” 


PEVEllIL OE THE PEAK. 


2TZ 

“ It is Jerningham, your grace,” said tlie attendant. “ It is one, 
afternoon; and your grace appointed some of the people without at 
eleven.” 

‘‘ Who are they? What do they want?” 

” A message from Whitehall, your grace.” 

“ Pshaw! it will keep cold. Those who make all others wait, will 
be the better of waiting in their turn. Were 1 to be guilty of ill- 
breeding, it should rather be to a king than a beggar.” 

” The gentlemen from the city.” 

” 1 am tiled of them— tired of their all cant, and no religion— all 
Protestantism, and no charity. Tell them to go to Shaftesbury— to 
Aldersgate Street with them— that’s the best market for their wares. 

” Jockey, my lord, from Newmarket,” 

” Let him ride to the devil — he has horse of mine and spurs of his 
own. Any more?” 

” The whole antechamber is full, my lord — knights and squires, 
doctors and dicers.” 

” The dicers, with their doctors * in their pockets, 1 presume.” 

” Counts, captains, and clergymen.” 

‘‘You are alliterative, Jerningham,” said the duke; ‘‘ and that is 
a proof you are poetical. Hand me my writing things.” 

Getting half out of bed — thrusting one arm into a brocade night- 
gown, deeply furred with sables, and one foot into a velvet slipper, 
while the other pressed in primitive nudity the lich carpet-:— his 
grace, without thinking further on the assembly without, began to 
pen a few lines of a satirical poem ; tthen suddenly stopped —threw 
the pen into the chimney— exclaimed that the humor was passed — 
anti asked his attendant if there were any letters. Jerningham 
produced a huge packet. 

” What the devil!” said his grace, “ do you think 1 will read all 
these? 1 am like Clarence, who asked a cup of wine, and was 
soused into a butt of sack. 1 mean, is there any thing which 
presses?” 

” This letter, your grace,” said Jerningham, ” concerning the 
Y or ksh ire mor tgage. ’ ’ 

” Did 1 not bid thee carry it to old Gatheral, my steward?” 

‘‘ 1 did, my lord,” answered the other; ” but Gatheral says there 
are difficulties, ” 

‘‘Let the usurers foreclose, then — there is no difficult}’’ in that; 
and out of a hundred manors 1 shall scarce miss one,” answered the 
duke. ” And hark ye, bring me my chocolate,” 

” Nay, my lord, Gatheral does not say it is impossible— only diffi- 
cult.” 

” And what is the use of him, if he cannot make it easy? But 
you are all born to make difficulties,” replied the duke. 

” Nay, if your grace approves the terms in this schedule, and 
pleases to sign it, Gatheral will undertake for the matter,” answered 
Jerningham. 

” And could you not have said so at first, you blockhead?” said 
the duke, signing the paper without looking at the contents — ‘‘ W^liat 

* Doctor, a cant name for false dice. 


PEVEllTL OF THE PEAK. ^73 

other letters? And remember, 1 must be plagued with no more busi- 
ness.” 

“ Billets-doux, my lord— five or six ot them. This left at the por- 
ter’s lodge by a vizard mask.” 

“Psnaw!” answered the duke, tossing them over, while his at- 
tendant assisted in dressing him — ‘‘an acquaintance of a quarter’s 
standing.” 

“ This given to one of the pages by my Lady 's waiting- 

woman.” 

” Plague on it— a Jeremiade on the subject of perjury and treach- 
ery, and not a single new line to the old tune,” said the duke, glanc- 
ing over the billet, ‘‘Here is the old cant — cruel man — broken wws 
— Heaven's just revenge. Why, the woman is thinking of murder--- 
not of love. No one should pretend to write upon so threadbare a 
topic without having at least some novelty of expression. The de- 
spainng Araminta — Lie there, fair desperate. And this — how comes 
it?” 

” Flung into the window of the hall by a fellow who ran oil at 
full speed,” answered Jerningham. 

” This is a better text,” said the duke; “ and yet it is an old one 
too — three weeks old at least — The little countess with the jealous 
lord — 1 should not care a farthing for her, save for that same jealous 
lord— Plague on’t, and he’s gone down to the country— evening 
— in silence and safety— written with a quill pulled from the wing of 
Cupid — Your ladyship has left him pen-feathers enough to fly away 
with— better clipped his wings when you had caught him, my. lady 
— And so confident of her Buckingham's faith — 1 hate confidence in a 
j^oung person — She must be taught better — 1 will not go.” 

” Your grace will not be so cruel!” said Jerningham. 

‘‘ Thou ait a compassionate fellow, Jerningham; but conceit must 
be punished.” 

‘‘ But if your lordship should resume your fancy for her?” 

“Why, then, you must swear the billet-doux miscarried,” an- 
swered the duke.’ “ And stay, a thought strikes me — it shall mis- 
carry in great style. Hark ye — is — what is the fellow’s name— the 
poet — is he yonder?” 

“ There are six gentlemen, sir, who, from the reams of paper in 
their pocRet, and the threadbare seams at their elbows, appear to 
wear the livery of the Muses.” 

“ Poetical once more, Jerningham. He, 1 mean, who wrote the 
last lampoon,” said the duke. 

“ I'd whom your grace said you owed five pieces and a beating!” 
replied Jerningham. 

“ The money for his satire, and the cudgel for his praise— Good- 
find him — give him the five pieces, and thrust the countess’s billet- 
doux — Hold— take Araminta’s and the rest ot them— thrust them all 
into his portfolio— All will come out at the Wit’s Coffee-house; and 
if the promulgator be not cudgeled into all the colors ot the rain- 
bow, there is no spite in woman, no faith in crabtree, or pith in 
heart of oak— Araminta’s wrath alone would overburden one pair of 
mortal shoulders. ” 


274 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ But, my lord duke,” said his attendant, “ this Settle* is so dull 
a rascal, that nothing he can write will take. ” 

“ Then as we have given him steel to head the arrow,” said the 
duke, “ we will give him wings to watt it with — wood, he has 
enough of his own to make a shaft or bolt of. Hand me my own 
unfinished lampoon — give it to him with the letters — let him make 
what he can of them all.” 

” My lord duke — 1 crave pardon — but your grace’s style will be 
discovered; and though the ladies’ names'^ are not at the letters, yet 
they will be traced.” 

” 1 would have it so, you blockhead. Have you lived with me so 
long, and cannot discover that the eclat of an intrigue is, with me, 
worth all the rest of it?” 

” But the danger, my lord duke?” replied Jerningham. ” There 
are husbands, bi'others, friends, whose revenge may be awakened.” 

‘‘ And beaten to sleep again,” said Buckingham, haughtily. “ 1 
have Black Will and his cudgel for plebeian grumblers; and those 
of quality 1 can deal with myself. 1 lack breathing and exercise of 
late.”f 

” But yet your grace—” 

‘‘ Hold your peace, fool! 1 tell you that your poor dwarfish spirit 
cannot measure the scope of mine. 1 tell thee 1 would have the 
course of my life a torrent — 1 am weary of easy achievements, and 
wish for obstacles, that 1 can sweep before my irresistible course.” 

Another gentleman now entered the apartment. ” 1 humbly crave 
your grace’s pardon,” he said; ” but Master Christian is so importu- 
nate for admission instantly, that I am obliged to take your grace’s 
pleasure.” 

” Tell him to call three hours hence. Damn his politic pate, that 
would make all men dance after his pipe!” 

” 1 thank thee tor the compliment, my lord duke, ’’said Christian, 
entering the apartment in somewhat a more courtly garb, but with 
the same unpretending and undistinguished mien, and in the same 
placid and indillerent manner with which he had accosted Julian 
Peveril upon different occasions during his journey to London. “ It 
is precisely my present object to pipe to you ; and you may dance to 
your own profit, if you will.” 

‘‘ On my word. Master Christian,” said the duke, haughtily, ” the 
affair should be weighty, that removes ceremony so entirely from 
betwixt us. If it relates to the subject of our last conversation, I 
must request our interview be posti^oned to some further oppor- 
tunity. 1 am engaged in an affair of some weight. ” Then turning 
his back on Christian, he w^ent on with his conversation with Jer- 
ningham. ” Find the person you wot of, and give him the papers; 
and hark ye, give him this gold to pay for the shaft of his arrow — 
the steel-head and peacock’s wing we have already provided.” 

“This is all well, my lord,” said Christian, calmly, and taking 
his seat at the same time in an easy-chair at some distance;-.” but 

* Elkana Settle, the unworthy scribbler whom the envy of Rochester and 
others tried to raise to public estimation, as a rival to Dryden ; a circumstance 
which has been the means of elevating him to a very painful species of im, 
mortality. 

t See Note X. Employment of Assassins in England, 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


275 

your grace’s levity is no match for my equanimity. It is necessary 
1 should speak with you; and 1 wil] await your grace’s leisure in 
the apartment.” 

Yery well, sir,” said the duke, peevishly; ‘‘if an evil is to be 
undergone, the sooner it is over the better — 1 can take measures to 
prevent its being renewed. Bo let me hear your errand without fur- 
ther delay.” 

” 1 will wait till your grace’s toilet is completed,” said Christian, 
with the indifferent tone which was natural to him. ” What 1 have 
to say must be between ourselves.” 

“ Begone, Jerningham; and remain without till 1 call. Leave my 
doublet on the couch. How now, 1 have worn this cloth of silver a 
hundred times.” 

” Only twice, if it please your grace,” replied Jerningham. 

‘‘ As well twenty times — keep it for yourself, or give it to my 
valet, if you are too proud of your gentility.” 

“Your grace has made better men than me wear your cast 
clothes,” said Jerningham, submissively. 

“ Thou art sharp, Jerningham,” said the duke — “ in one sense 1 
have, and 1 may again. So now, that pearl-colored thing will do 
with the ribbon and George. Get away with thee. And now that 
he is gone. Master Christian, may 1 once more crave 5mur pleasure?” 

“My lord duke,” said Christian, ‘‘you are a worshiper of diffi- 
culties in state affairs, as in love matters.” 

” 1 trust you have been no eavesdropper. Master Christian,” re- 
plied the duke; ‘‘ it scarce argues the respect due to me, or to my 
roof.” 

” 1 know not what you mean, my lord,” replied Christian. 

‘‘ Nay, 1 care not if the whole world heard what 1 said but now 
to Jerningham. But to the matter,” replied the Duke of Bucking- 
ham. 

‘‘ Your grace is so much occupied with conquests over the fair and 
over the witty, that you have perhaps forgotten what a stake you 
have in the little Island of Man.” 

” Not a whit. Master Christian. 1 remember well enough that my 
roundheaded father-in-law, Fairfax, had the island from the Long 
Parliament; and was ass enough to quit hold of it at the Eestoration, 
when, if he had closed his clutches, and held fast, like a true bird 
of prey, as he should have done, he might have kept it for him and 
his. It had been a rare thing to have had a little kingdom— made 
laws of my own — had my chamberlain with his white staff — 1 would 
have taught Jerningham, in half a day, to look as wise, walk as 
stittl}^ and speak as sillily, as Harry Bennet.” 

‘‘You might have done this, and more, if it had pleased your 
grace.” 

‘‘ Ay, and if it had pleased my grace, thou, Ned Christian, 
shouldst have been the Jack Ketch of my dominions.” 

‘‘ I your Jack Ketch, my lord?” said Christian, more in a tone of 
surpi'ise than of displeasure. 

“ W^hy, ay; thou hast been perpetually intriguing against the life 


♦See Note Y. Earl of Arlington. 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


2 % 

of yonder poor old woman. It were a kingdom to thee to gratify 
thy spleen with thy own hands.” 

” 1 only seek justice against the countess,” said Christian. 

” And the end of justice is always a gibbet,” said the duke. 

‘‘Be it so,” answered Christian. ” Well, the countess is in the 
Plot.” 

” The devil confound the Plot, as I believe he first invented it!” 
said the Duke of Buckingham; ”1 have heard of nothing else for 
months. If one must go to hell, I would it were by some new road, 
and in gentlemen’s company. 1 should not like to travel with 
Oates, Bedlow, and the rest of that famous cloud of witnesses.” 

” A our grace is then resolved to forego all tne advantages which 
may arise? If the House of Derby fall under forfeiture, the grant 
to Fairfax, now worthily represented by your duchess, revives, and 
you become the Lord and Sovereign of Man.” 

” In right of a woman,” said the duke; ” but, in troth, my godly 
dame owes me some advantage for having lived the first year of our 
marriage with her and old Black Tom, her grim, fighting, puritanic 
father. A man might as well have married the devil’s daughter, 
and set up housekeeping with his father-in-law.”* 

” 1 understand you are willing, then, to join your interest for a 
heave at the House of Derby, my lord duke?” 

” As they are unlawfully possessed of my wife’s kingdom, they 
certainly can expect no iavor at my hand. But thou knowest there 
is an interest at M hitehall predominant over mine.” 

” That is only by your grace’s sufferance,” said Christian. 

“ No, no; 1 tell thee a hundred times, no,” said the duke, rousing 
himself to anger at the recollection. ‘‘ 1 tell thee that base courte- 
san, the Duchess of Portsmouth, hath impudently set herself to 
thwart and contradict me; and Charles has given me both cloudy 
looks ami hard words before the court. 1 would he could but guess 
what is tne offense between her and me! 1 would he knew but 
that! But 1 will have her plumes picked, or my name is not Vil- 
liers. A worthless French fille-de-joie to b]j;p,ve me thus? Chris- 
tian, thou art right; there is no passion so spuit-stirring as revenge. 
1 will patronize the Plot, if it be but to spite her, and make it im- 
possible for the king to uphold her.” 

As the duke spoke, he gradually wrought himself into a passion, 
and traversed the apartment with as much vehemence as if the only 
object he had on earth was to deprive the duchess of her power and 
favor with the king. Christian smiled internally to see him ap- 
proach the state of mind in which he was most easily worked upon, 
and judiciously kept silence, until the duke called out to him, in a 
pet, ‘‘ Well, Sir Oracle, you that have laid so many schemes to sup- 
plant this she-wolf of Gaul, where are all your contrivances now? 
Where is the exquisite beauty who was to catch the sovereign’s eye at 
the first glance? Cliiffincli, hath he seen her? and what does he 
say, that exquisite critic in beauty and blanc mange, women and 
wine?” 

* Mary, daughter of Thomas, Lord Fairfax, was wedded to the Duke of 
Buckingham, whose versatility made him capable of rendering himself for a 
time as agreeable to his father-in-law, though a rigid Presbyterian, as to the 
gay Charles II. . ^ — 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


27 ? 

“ He has seen and approves, hut has not yet heard her; and her 
spcQch answers to all the rest. We came here yesterday; and to-day 
1 intend to introduce Chiffinch to her, the instant he arrives from 
the country; and 1 expect liim every hour. 1 am but afraid of the 
damsel’s peevish virtue, for she hath been brought up after the 
fashion of our grandmothers— our mothers had better sense.” 

“ What! so fair, so young, so quick-witted, and so difflcull?” 
said the duke. “ By your leave, you shall intiortuce me as well as 
Chiffinch.” 

“ That your grace may cure her of her intractable modesty?” 
said Christian. 

“Why,” replied the duke, “ it will but teach her not to stand in 
her own light. Kings do not love to court and sue; they should 
have their game run down tor them. ’ ’ 

“ Under your grace’s favor,” said Christian, “ this cannot be— . 
Non omnibus dormio—Yom grace knows the classic allusion. If this 
maiden become a prince’s favorite, rank gilds the shame and the 
sin. But to any under majesty, she must not vail topsail.” 

“Why, thou suspicious fool, 1 was but in jest,” said the duke. 

“ Do you think 1 would interfere to spoil a plan so much to my 
own advantage as that which you have laid before me?” 

Christian smiled and shook his head. “My lord,” he said, “1 
know your grace as well, or better, perhaps, tlian you know your- 
. self. To spoil a well concerted intrigue by some cross stroke of jmur 
own, would give you more pleasure than to bring it to a successful 
termination according to the plans of others. But Shaftesbuiy, 
and all concerned, have determined that our scheme shall at least 
have fair play. We reckon, therefore, on your help; and — forgive 
me when 1 say so — we will not permit ourselves to be impeded by 
your levity and fickleness of purpose.” 

“ Who? 1 ligM and fickle of purpose?” said the duke. “ You 
see me here as resolved as any of you, to dispossess the mistress, 
and to carry on the Plot; these are the only two things 1 live for in 
this world. No one can play the man of business like me, when 1 
please, to the very filing and labeling of my letters. I am regular as 
a scrivener.” - 

“ You have Chiffinch’s letter from the country; he told me he had 
written to you about some passages betwixt him and the young 
Lord Baville.” 

“ He did so— he did so,” said the duke, looking among his let- 
ters; “ but I see not his letter just now — 1 scarcely noted the con- 
tents — I was busy when it came — but I have it safely.” 

“ You should have acted on it,” answered Christian. “ The fool 
suflered himself to be choused out of his secret, and prayed you to . 
sec that my lord’s messcinger got not to the duchess with some dis- 
patches which he sent up from Derbyshire, betraying our mystery.” 

The duke was now alarmed, and rang the bell hastily. Jerning- 
liam appeared. “ Where is the letter 1 had from Master Chiffinch 
some hours since?” 

“ If it be not amongst those your grace has before you, 1 know 
nothing of it,” said Jerniiigham. “ 1 saw none such arrive.” 

“ You lie, you rascal,” said Buckingham; “ have you a right to 
remember better than 1 do?” _ 


PEVETITL OF THE PEAK. 


278 

“ If your grace will forgive me reminding you, you have scarce 
opened a letter this week,” said his gentleman. 

“Did you ever hear such a provoking rascal?” said the duke. 
” He might be a witness in the Plot. He has knocked my character 
for regularity entirely on the head with his damned counter-evi- 
denee.” 

‘‘Your graee’s talent and capaeity will at least remain unim- 
peached,” said Christian; ” and it is those that must serve yourself 
and your friends. If I might advise, you will hasten to court, and 
lay some foundation for the impression we wish to make. If your 
graee can take the first word, and throw out a Irint to crossbite Sa- 
ville, it will be well. But above all, keep the king’s ear employed, 
which no one can do so well as you. Leave Chiffinch to fill his 
heart with a proper object. Another thing is, there is a blockhead of 
an old cavalier, who must needs be a bustler in the Countess of 
Derby’s behalf— he is fast in hold, with the whole tribe of witnesses 
at his haunches.” 

“ Nay, then, take him, Topham.” 

‘‘ Topham has taken him already, my lord,” said Christian; ” and 
there is, besides, a young gallant, a son of the said knight, who was 
bred in the household of the Countess of Derby, and who has 
brought letters from her to the Provincial of the Jesuits, and others 
in London.” 

“ What are their names?” said the duke, dryly. 

” Sir Geoffrey Peveril of Martindale Castle, in Derb 3 ’^shire, and 
his son J ulian. ’ ’ 

‘‘ What! Peveril of the Peak?” said the duke — ‘‘ a stout old cav- 
alier as ever swore an oath.- A Worcester-man, too; and, in truth, 
a man of all work, when blows were going. 1 will not consent to 
his ruin, Christian. These fellows must be flogged off such false 
scents — flogged in every sense, they must, and will be, when the na- 
tion comes to its eyesight again.” 

“It is of more than the last importance, in the meantime, to the 
furtherance of our plan,” said Christian, “ that your grace should 
stand for a space between them and the king’s favor. The youth 
hath influence with the maiden, which we should find scarce favor- 
able to our views; besides, her father holds him as high as he can 
any one who is no such puritanic fool as himself.” ^ 

“ Well, most Christian Christian,” said the duke, “ 1 have heard 
your commands at length. I will endeavor to stop the earths under 
the throne, that neither the lord, knight, nor squire in question 
shall find it possible to burrow there. For the fair one, I must leave 
Chiffinch and you to manage her introduction to her high destinies, 
since 1 am not to be trusted. Adieu, most Christian Christian.” 

He fixed his eyes on him, and then exclaimed, as he shut the dour 
of the apartment — “Most profligate and damnable villain! And 
what provokes me most of all, is the knave’s composed insolenee. 
Y^our grace will do this — and your grace will condescend to do that. 
A pretty puppet 1 should be to play the seeond part, or rather the 
third, in such a scheme! No, they shall all w^alk according to my 
purpose, or I will cross them. 1 will find this girl out in spite of 
them, and judge if their scheme is likely to be successful. If so, 
she shall be mine — mine entirely, before she becomes the king’s. 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK, 


279 


and 1 will command her who is to guide Charles. Jerningham*” 
(his gentleman entered) “ cause Christian to he dogged wherever he 
goes, for the next four- and- twenty hours, ^ and find out where he 
visits a female newly come to town. You smile, you knave!” 

“ 1 did hut suspect a fresh rival to Araminta and the little count- 
ess,” said Jerningham. 

“Away to your business, knave,” said the duke, “ and let me 
think of mine. To suhdue a Puritan in Esse— a king’s favorite in 
Posse — the very muster of western beauties — that is point first. The 
impudence of this Manx mongrel to he corrected — the pride of Ma- 
dame la Duchesse to be pulled down— an important state intrigue to 
he furthered, or bafiled, as circumstances render most to my own 
honor and glory — I wished for business but now, and 1 have got 
enough of it. But Buckingham will keep his own steerage -way 
through shoal and through weather.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Mark you this, Bassanio— 

The devil can quote Scripture for his purpose. 

Merchant of Venice. 

After leaving the proud mansion of the Duke of Buckingham, 
Christian, full of the deep and treacherous schemes which he medi- 
tated, hastened to the city, where, in a decent inn, kept by a person 
of his own persuasion, he had been unexpectedly summoned to meet 
with Ralph Bridgenoith of Moultrassie. He was not disappointed — 
the major had arrived that morning, and anxiously expected him. 
The usual gloom of his countenance was darkened into a yet deeper 
shade of anxiety, which was scarcely relieved, even while, in answer 
to his inquiry after his daughter, Christian gave the most favorable 
account of her health and spirits, naturally and unaffectedly inter- 
mingled with such praises of her beauty and her disposition as were 
likely to be most grateful to a father’s ear. 

But Christian had too much cunning to expatiate on this theme, 
however soothing. He stopped short exactly at the point where, as 
an aifectionate relative, he might be supposed to have said enough. 
“ The lady,” he said, “ with whom he had placed Alice, was de- 
lighted with her aspect and manners, and undertook to be responsi- 
ble for her health and happiness. He had not, he said, deserved so 
little confidence at the hand of his brother, Bridgenorth, as that the 
major should, contrary to his purpose, and to the plan which they 
had adjusted together, have hurried up from the country, as if his 
own presence were necessary for Alice’s protection.” 

“ Brother Christian,” said Bridgenorth in reply, “ I must see my 
child— 1 must see this person with whom she is intrusted,” 

“ To what purpose?” answered Christian. “ Have you not often 
confessed that the over excess of the carnal affection which you 
have entertained for your daughter hath been a snare to you? Have 
you not, more than once, been on the point of resigning those great 
designs which should place righteousness as a counselor beside the 

* See Note Z. Letter from the Dead to the Living. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


280 

throne, because you desired to gratify your daughter’s girlish pas- 
sion for this descendant of your old persecutor — this Julian Pev- 
eril?” 

“ I own it,” said Bridgenorth; ” and worlds would 1 have given, 
and would yet give, to clasp that youth to my bosom, and call him 
my son. The spirit of his mother looks from his eye, and his state- 
ly step is as that of his father, when he daily spoke comfort to me 
in my distress, and said, ‘ The child liveth.’ ” 

” But the youth walks,” said Christian, ” after his own lights, 
and mistakes the meteor of the marsh for the Polar star. Ralirli 
Bridgenorth, I will speak to thee in friendly sincerity. Thou must 
not think to serve both the good cause and Baal. Obey,^ it thou 
wilt, thine own carnal affections, summon this Julian Peveril to thy 
house, and let him wed thy daughter. But mark the reception he 
will meet with from the proud old knight, whose spirit is now, even 
now, as little broken with his chains as after the sword of the saints 
had prevailed at Worcester. Thou wilt see thy daughter spurned 
from his feet like an outcast.” 

“Christian,” said Bridgenorth, interrupting him, “thou dost 
urge me hard; but thou dost it in love, my brother, and 1 foi’ijive 
thee. Alice shall never be spurned. But this friend of thine — this 
lad}’' — thou art my child’s uncle; and after me, thou art next to her 
in love and affection. Still, thou art not 'her father — hast not her 
father’s fears. Art thou sure of the character of this woman to 
Avhom my child is intrusted?” 

“ Am 1 sure of mv own? Am 1 sure that my name is Christian — 
yours Bridgenorth? Is it a thing 1 am likely to be insecure in? Have 
1 not dwelt tor many years in this city? Do 1 not know this court? 
And am 1 liKely to be imposed upon? For 1 will not think you can 
fear my imposing upon you.” 

“ Thou art my brother,” said Bridgenorth — “ the blood and bone 
of my departed saint— and 1 am determined that 1 will trust thee 
in this matter.” 

“Thou dost well,” said Christian; “and who knows what re- 
W'ard may be in store for thee? 1 cannot look upon Alice, but it is 
strongly borne in on my mind, that there will be work for a creature 
so excellent beyond ordinary women. Courageous Judith freed 
Bethulia by her valor, and the comely features of Esther made her 
a safeguard and a defense to her people in the land of captivity, 
when she found favor in the sight of King Ahasuerus.” 

“ Be it with her as Heaven wills,” said Bridgenorth; “ and now 
tell me what progress there is in the great work.” 

“ The people are weary of the iniquity of this court,” said Chris- 
tian; “ and if this man will continue to reign, it must be by calling 
to his councils men of another stamp. The alarm excited by the 
damnable practices of the Papists has called up men’s souls, and 
.awakened their eyes, to the dangers of their slate. He himself — for 
he will give up brother and wife to save himself— is not averse to a 
change of measures; and though we cannot at liist see the court 
purged as with a winnowing fan, yet there will be enough of the 
good to control the bad — enough of the sober party to compel the 
grant of that universal toleration for which we have sighed so long 
as a maiden for her beloved. Time and opportunity will lead the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


281 


way to more thorough reformation; and that will be done without 
stroke of sword which our friends tailed to establish on a sure 
foundation, even when their victorious blades were in their hands.” 

“ May God grant it!” said Bridgenortli; “ for 1 fear me 1 should 
scruple to do aught which should once more unsheath the civil 
sword; but welcome all that conies in a peaceful and parliamentary 
way.” 

‘‘ Ay,” said Christian, “ and which will bring with it the bitter 
amends which our enemies have So long merited at our hands. How 
long hath our brothel’s blood cried for vengeance from the altar! 
How shall that cruel Frenchwoman find that neither lapse of years, 
nor her powerful friends, nor the name of Stanley, nor the Sov- 
ereignty of Man, shall stop the stern course of the pursuer of blood. 
Her name shall be struck from the noble, and her heritage shall an- 
other take.” 

“ Kay, but, brother Christian,” said Bridgenorth, “ art thou not 
over eager in pursuing this thing? It is thy duty as a Christian to 
forgive thine enemies.” 

“Ay, but not the enemies of Heaven — not those who shed the 
blood of the saints,” said Christian, his eyes kindling with that ve- 
hement and fiery expression which at times gave to his uninterest- 
ing countenance the only character of passion which it ever exhib- 
ited. “ No, Bridgenorth,” he continued, “ 1 esteem this purpose of 
revenge holy. 1 account it a propitiatory sacrifice for what may 
have been evil in my life, i have submitted to be spurned by the 
haughty— 1 have humbled myself to be as a servant; but in my 
breast "was the proud thought, 1 who do this — do it that I may 
avenge my brother’s blood. ’ ’ 

“ fc’till, my brother,” said Bridgenorth, “although 1 participate 
thy purpose, and have aided thee against this Moabitish woman, 1 
cannot but think thy revenge is more after the law of Moses than 
after the law of love.” 

“This comes well from thee, Ealpli Bridgenorth,” answered 
Christian; “ from thee, who hast just smiled over the downfall of 
thine own enemy.” 

“ If you mean Sir Geoffrey Peveril,” said Bridgenorth, “ 1 smile 
not on his ruin. It is well he is abased; but if it lies with me, 1 may 
humble his pride, but will never ruin his house.” 

“You know your purpose best,” said Christian; “ and 1 do jus- 
tice, brother Bridgenorth,' to the purity of your principles; but men 
who see with but worldly e5^es would discern little purpose of mercy 
in the strict magistrate and severe creditor — and such have you been 
to Peveril.” 

“ And, brother Christian,” said Bridgenorth, his color rising as he 
spoke, “neither do 1 doubt your purpose, nor deny the surprising 
address with which you have procured such perfect information 
concerning the purposes of j'ondei' woman of Ammon. But it is 
free to me to think, that in your intercourse with the court, and with 
courtiers, you may, in your carnal and worldly policy, sink the 
value of those spiritual gifts, for which you were once so much cel- 
ebrated among the brethren.” 

“Do not apprehend it,” said Christian, recovering his temper, 
which had been a little rullled by the previous discussion. “ Let us 


282 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

but work together as heretofore; and 1 trust each of us shall be 
found doing the work ot a faithful servant to that good old cause 
for which we have heretofore drav»^n the sword.” 

So saying, he took his hat, and bidding Bridgenorth farewell, de- 
clared his intention ot returning in the evening. 

“Fare thee well!” said Bridgenorth; “ to that cause wilt thou 
find me ever a true and devoted adherent. 1 will act by that counsel 
of thine, and will not even ask thee— though it may grieve my heart 
as a parent— with whom, or where, thou hast intrusted my child. 1 
will try to cut off, and cast from me, even my right hand, and my 
right eye; but for thee, Christian, it thou dost deal otherwise than 
prudently and honestly in this matter, it is w’hat God and man will 
require at thy hand.” 

“ Fear not me,” said Christian, hastily, and left the place, agi- 
tated by reflections of no pleasant kind. 

” 1 ought to have persuaded him to return,” he said, as he 
stepped out into the street. ” Even his hovering in this neighbor- 
hood may spoil the plan on which depends the rise of my fortunes 
— ay, and of his child’s. Will men say 1 have ruined her, when 1 
shall have raised her to the dazzling height of the Duchess of Ports- 
mouth, and perhaps made her a mother to a long line of princes? 
Chifflnch hath vouched for opportunity; and the voluptuary’s fort- 
une depends upon his gratifying the taste ot his master for variety. 
If she makes an impression, it must be a deep one; and once seated 
in his affections, i tear not her being supplanted. What will her 
father say? Will he, like a prudent man, put his shame in liis 
pocket, because it is well gilded? or will he think it fitting to make 
a display of moral wrath and parental frenzy? 1 fear the latter. He 
has ever kept too strict a couise to admit his conniving at such 
license. But what will his anger avail? I need not be seen in the 
matter — those who are will care little for the resentment ot a coun- 
try Puritan. And after all, whatl am laboring to bring about is best 
for himself, the wench, and above all, for me, Edward Christian.” 

With such base opiates did this unhappy wretch stifle his own 
conscience, while anticipating the disgrace of his friend’s family, 
and the ruin of a near relative, committed in confidence to his 
charge. The character of this man was of no common description; 
nor was it by an ordinary road that he had arrived at the present 
climax of unfeeling and infamous selfishness. 

Edward Christian, as the reader is aware, was the brother of that 
William Christian, who was the principal instrument in delivering 
up the Isle ot Man to the republic, and who became the victim of 
the Countess of Derby’s revenge on that account. Both had been 
educated as Puritans, but William was a soldier, which somewhat 
modified the strictness of his religious opinions; Edward, a civilian, 
seemed to entertain these principles in the utmost rigor. But it was 
only seeming. The exactness of deportment, which procured him 
great honor and influence among the sober party, as they were wont 
to term themselves, covered a voluptuous disposition, the gratifica- 
tion of which was sweet to him as stolen waters, and pleasant as 
bread eaten in secret. While, therefore, his seeming godliness 
brought him worldly gain, his secret pleasures compensated for his 
outward austerity; until the Kestoration and the countess’s violent 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


283 


proceedinp:s against his brother interrupted the couise of both. He 
then fled from Ms native island, burning with the desire of reveng- 
ing his brother’s death — the only passion foreign to his own gratifi- 
cation which he was ever known to cherish, and which was also, at 
least, partly selfish, since it concerned the restoration of his own 
fortunes. 

He found easy access to Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who, in 
right of his duchess, claimed such of the Derby estate as had been 
bestowed by the parliament on his celebrated father-in-law. Lord 
Fairfax. His influence at the court of Charles, where a jest was a 
better plea than a long claim of faithful service, was so successfully 
exerted, as to contribute greatly to the depression of that lo3'’al and 
ill-rewarded family. But Buckingham was incapable, even for his 
own interest, of pursuing the steady course which Christian sug- 
gested to him; and his vacillation probably saved the remnant of 
the large estates of the Earl of Derby. 

Meantime, Christian was too useful a follower to be dismissed. 
From Buckingham, and others of that stamp, he did not affect to 
conceal the laxity of his morals; but, toward the numerous and 
powerful party to which he belonged, he was able to disguise them 
by a seeming gravity of exterior, which he never laid aside. In- 
deed, so wide and absolute was then the distinction betwixt the court 
and the city, that a man might have for some time played two several 
parts, as in two diflerent spheres, without its being discovered in the 
one that he exhibited himself in a different light in the other. Be- 
sides, when a man of talent shows himself an able and useful par- 
tisan, his party will continue to protect and accredit him, in spite of 
conduct the most contradictory to their own principles. Some facts 
are, in such cases, denied— some are glossed over — and party zeal is 
permitted to cover at least as many defects as ever doth charity. 

Edward Christian had often need of the partial indulgence of his 
friends; but he experienced it, for he was eminently useful. Buck- 
ingham, and other courtiers of the same class, however dissolute in 
their lives, were desirous of keeping some connection with the Dis- 
senting or Puritanic party, as it was termed; thereby to sirenglhen 
themselves against their opponents at court. In such intrigues 
Christian was a notable agent ; and at one time had nearly procured 
an absolute union between a class which professed the most rigid 
principles of religion and morality, and the latitudinarian courtiers, 
who set all principle at defiance. 

Amidst the vicissitudes of a life of intrigue, during which Buck- 
ingham’s ambitious schemes, and his own, repeatedly sent him 
across the Atlantic, it was Edward Christian’s boast that he never 
lost sight of his principal object— revenge on the Countess of Derby. 
He maintained a close and intimate correspondence with his native 
island, so as to be perfectly informed of whatever took place there; 
and he stimulated, on every favorable opportunity, the cupidity of 
Buckingham to possess himself of this potty kingdom, by procuring 
the forfeiture of its present lord. It was not difficult to keep his 
patron’s wild wishes alive on this topic, for his own mercurial im- 
agination attached particular charms to the idea of becoming a sort 
of sovereign even in this little island ; and he was, like Catiline, as 
covetous of the property of others as he was profuse of his own. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


284 

But it was not until the pretended discovery of the Papist Plot 
that the schemes of Christian could be brought to ripen ; and then so 
odious were the Catholics iu the eyes of the credulous people of Eng- 
land, that, upon the accusation of the most infamous of mankind, 
common informers, the scourings of jails, and the refuse of the 
whipping-post, the most atrocious charges against persons of_ the 
highest rank and fairest character were readily received and credited. 

This was a period which Christian did not tail to iinprove. He 
drew close his intimacy with Bridgenorth, which had indeed never 
been interrupted, and readily engaged him in his schemes, which, 
in the eyes of his brother-in-law, were alike honorable and patriotic. 
But, while he flattered Bridgenorth with the achieving a complete 
reformation in the state — checking the profligacy of the court — re- 
lieving the consciences of the Dissenters from the pressure of the 
penal ’] a ws — amending, in fine, the crying grievances of the time — 
while he showed him also, in prospect, revenge upon the Countess 
of Derby, and a humbling dispensation on the house of Peveril, from 
whom Bridgenorth had suffered such indignity, Christian did not 
neglect, in the meanwhile, to consider how he could best benefit 
himself by the confidence reposed in him by his unsuspicious rela 
lion. 

The extreme beauty of Alice Bridgenorth — the great wealth which 
time and economy bad accumulated on her father — pointed her out 
as a most desirable match to repair the wasted fortunes of some of 
the followers of the court; and he flattered himself that he could 
conduct such a negotiation so as to be in a high degree conducive to 
his own advantage. He found there would be little difficulty in pre- 
vailing on Major Bridgenorth to intiust him with the guardianship 
of his daughter. That unfortunate gentleman had accustomed him- 
self, from the very period of her birth, to regard the presence of his 
child as a worldly indulgence too great to be allowed to him ; and 
Christian had little trouble in convincing him that tlie strong in- 
clination which he felt to bestow her on Julian Peveril, provided he 
could be brought over to his own political opinions, was a blama- 
blc compromise with his more severe principles. Late circumstances 
had taught him the incapacity and unfitness of Dame Debbitch for 
the sole charge of so dear a pledge; and he readily and thankfully 
embraced the kind offer of her maternal uncle, Christian, to place 
Alice under the protection of a lady of rank in London, whilst he 
himself was to be engaged in the scenes of bustle and blood, which, 
in common with all good Protestants, he expected was speedily to 
take place on a general rising of the Papists, unless prevented by 
the active and energetic measures of the good people of England. 
He even confessed his fears, that his partial regard for Alice’s hap- 
piness might enervate his efforts in behalf of his country; and Chris- 
tian had little trouble in eliciting from him a promise that he would 
forbear lo inqinre after her for some time. 

Thus certain of being ihe temporary guardian of his niece for a 
space long enough, he flattered himself, for the execution of his pur- 
pose, Christijin endeavored to pave the way by consulting Chiffinch, 
whose known skill in court policy qualified him best as an adviser 
on this occasion. But this worthy ])erson, being, in tact, a purveyor 
for his majesty’s pleasures, and on that account high in his good 


PEVEHIL OF THE PEAK. 


285 

graces, thought it fell within the line of his duty to suggest another 
scheme than that on which Christian consulted him. A woman of 
such exquisite beauty as Alice was described, he deemed more 
worthy to be a partaker of the affections of the Merry JMonarch, 
whose taste in female beauty was so exquisite, than to be made the 
wife of some worn-out prodigal of quality. And then, doing per- 
fect justice to his own character, he felt it would not be one whit 
impaired, while his fortune would be, in every respect, greatly 
amended, if, after sharing the short teign of the Gwyns, the Davises,^ 
the Robertses, and sofoilh, Alice Rridgenorth should retire from the 
state of a royal favorite into the humble condition of Mrs. 
Cliiffinch. 

After cautiously sounding Christian, and finding that the near 
prospect of interest to himself effectually prevented his starting at 
this iniquitous scheme, Chiffinch detailed it to him fully, carefully 
keeping the final termination out of sight, and talking of the favor 
to be acquired by the fair Alice as no passing caprice, but the com- 
mencement of a reign as long and absolute as that of the Duchess of 
Portsmouth, of whose avarice and domineering temper Charles was 
now understood to be much tired, though the force of habit ren- 
dei-ed him unequal to free himself of her yoke. 

Thus chalked out, the scene prepared was no longer the intrigue 
of a court pander, and a villainous resolution for the ruin of an in- 
nocent girl, but became a state intrigue, for the removal of an ob- 
noxious favorite, and the subsequent change of the king’s senti- 
ments upon various materral points, in which he was at present in- 
flenced hy the Duchess of Portsmouth. In this light it was exhibited 
to the Diike of Buckingham, who, either to sustain his character for 
daring gallantry, or' in order to gratify some capricious fancy, had 
at one time made love to the reigning favorite and experienced a re- 
pulse which he had never forgiven. 

But one scheme was too little to occupy the active and enterpris- 
ing spirit of the duke. An appendix of the Popish Plot was easily 
so contrived as to involve the Countess of Derby, who, from char- 
acter and religion, was precisely the person whom the credulous 
part of the public were inclined to suppose the likely accomplice of 
such a conspiracy. Christian and Biidgenorth undertook the peril- 
ous commission of attacking her even in her own little kingdom of 
Man, and had commissions for this purpose, which were only to be 
produced in case of their scheme taking effect. 

It miscarried, as the reader is aware, from the countess's alert prep- 
arations for defense; and neither Christian nor Bridgenorth held it 
sound policy to practice openly, even under parliamentary autho’’ity, 
against a lad}^ so little liable to hesitate upon the measures most 
likely to secure her feudal sovereignty; wisely considering, that even 
the omnipotence, as it has been somewhat too largely styled, of 
parliament might fail to relieve them from the personal conse- 
quences of a failure. 

On the continent of Britain, however, no opposition was to be 
feared; and so well was Christian acquainted with all the motions in 
the interior of the countess’s little court, or household, that Peveril 
would have been arrested the instant he set foot on shore but for 
the gale of wind which obliged the vessel in which he was a passeu- 


286 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


ger to run for Liverpool. Here Christian, under the name of Gan- 
lesse, unexpectedly met with him, and preserved him from the fangs 
of the well-breathed witnesses of the Plot, with the purpose of secur- 
ing his dispatches, or, if necessary, his person also, in such a man- 
ner as to place him at his own discretion — a iiariow and perilous 
game, which he thought it better, however, to undertake, than to 
permit these subordinate agents, who were always ready to mutiny 
against all in league with them, to obtain the credit which they must 
have done by the seizure of the Countess of Derby’s dispatches. It 
was, besides, essential to Buckingham’s schemes that these should 
not pass into the hands of a public officer like Topham, who, how- 
ever pompous and stupid, was upright and well-intentioned, until 
they had undergone the revisal of a private committee, where some- 
thing might have probably been suppressed, even supposing that 
nothing had been added. In short, Christian, in carrying on his own 
separate and peculiar intrigue, by the agency of the Great Popish 
Plot, as it was called, acted just like an engineer, who derives the 
principle of motion which turns his machinery by means of a steam- 
engine, or large water-wheel, constructed to drive a separate and 
larger engine. Accordingly, he was determined that, while he took 
all the advantage he could from their supposed discoveries, no one 
should be admitted to tamper or interfere with his own plans of 
profit and revenge. 

Chiffinch, who, desirous of satisfying himself with his own eyes 
of that excellent beauty which had been so highly extolled, had 
gone down to Derbyshire on purpose, was infinitely delighted, when, 
during the course of a two hours’ sermon at the dissenting chapel in 
Liverpool, which afforded him ample leisure for a deliberate survey, 
he arrived at tbe conclusion that he had never seen a form or face 
more captivating. His eyes having confirmed what was told him, 
he hurried back to the little inn which formed their place of ren- 
dezvous, and there awaited Christian and his niece, with a degree of 
confidence in the success of their project which he had not before 
entertained; and with an apparatus of luxury, calculated, as he 
thought, to make a favorable impression on the mind of a rustic 
girl. He was somewhat surprised, when, instead of Alice Bridge- 
north, to whom he expected that night to have been introduced, he 
found that Christian Avas accompanied by Julian Peveril. It was 
indeed a severe disappointment, tor he had prevailed on his own in- 
dolence to venture thus far from the court, in order that he might 
judge, with his own paramount taste, whether Alice was really the 
prodigy which her uncle’s praises had bespoken her, and, as such, 
a victim worthy of the fate to which she vms destined. 

A few words betwixt the worthy confederates determined them 
on the plan of stripping Peveril of the countess’s dispatches; 
Chiffinch absolutely refusing to take any share in arresting him, as 
a matter of which his master’s approbation might be very uncertain. 

Christian had also his own reasons for abstaining from so decisive 
a step. It was by no means likely to be agreeable to Bridgenorth, 
whom it was necessary to keep in good humor; — it was not neces- 
sary, for the countess’s dispatches were of far more importance than 
the person of Julian. Lastly, it was superfluous in this respect also, 
that Julian was on the road to his father’s castle, where it was likely 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


287 . 


he would be seized, as a matter of course, along with the other sus- 
picious persopwho fell under Topham’s warrant, and the denuncia- 
tions of his infamous companions. He, therefore, far from using 
any violence to Peveril, assumed toward him such a friendly tone 
as might seem to warn him against receiving damage from others, 
and vindicate himself from having any share in depriving him of 
his charge. This last maneuver was achieved by an infusion of a 
strong narcotic into Julian’s winS; under the influence of which he 
slumbered so soundly that the confederates were easily able to ac- 
complish their inhospitable purpose. 

The events of the succeeding days are already known to the reader. 
Chifflnch set forward to return to London, with the packet, which 
it was desirable should be in Buckingham’s hands as soon as possi- 
ble; while Christian went to Moultrassie, to receive Alice from her 
father, and convey her safely to London — his accomplice agreeing 
to defer his curiosity to see more of her until they should have ar- 
rived in that city. 

Before parting wdth Bridgenorth, Christian had exerted his utmost 
address to prevail on him to remain at Moultrassie; he had even 
overstepped tlie bounds of prudence, and, by his urgency, awakened 
some suspicions of an indefinite nature, which he toiind it difliciilt 
to allay. Bridgenorth, therefore, followed his brother-in-law to 
London; and the reader has already been made acquainted with the 
arts which Christian used to prevent his further interference with 
the destinies of his daughtei, or the unhallowed schemes of her ill- 
chosen guardian. Still Christian, as he strode along the street in 
profound reflection, saw that his undertaking was attend^^d with a 
thousand perils; and the drops stood like beads on his brow wLen 
the thought of the presumptuous levity and fickle temper of Buck- 
ingham — the frivolity and intemperance of Chifiinch — the suspicions 
of the melancholy and bigoted, yet sagacious and honest Bridge- 
north. “ Had I,” he thought, “ but tools fitted, each to their por- 
tion of the work, liow easily could 1 heave asunder and disjoint the 
strength that opposes me! But with these frail and insuflicient im- 
plements 1 am in daily, hourly, momentary danger, that one lever 
or other gives way, and that the whole ruin recoils on my own 
liead. And yet, w^ere it not for those failings 1 complain of, how 
were it possible for me to have acquired that power over them all 
which constitutes them my passive tools, even when they seem most 
to exert their own free will? Yes, the bigots have some right when 
they affirm that all is for the best.” 

It may seem strange, that, amidst the various subjects of Chris- 
tian’s apprehension, he was never visited by any long or permanent 
doubt that the virtue of his niece might prove the shoal on which 
his voyage should be wrecked. But he was an arrant rogue as well 
as a hardened libertine; and, in both characters, a professed disbe- 
liever in the virtue of the fair sex. 


288 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

# 

As for John Dryden's Charles, I own that king 
Was never any very mighty thing; 

And yet he was a devilish honest fellow — 

Enjoy’d his friend and bottle, and got mellow.— D r, Wolcot. 

London, the grand central point of intrigues of every description, 
liad now attracted within its dark and shadowy region the greatei 
number of the personages whom we have had occasion to mention. 

Julian Peveril, amongst others of the dramatis personsB, had ar- 
rived, and taken up his abode in a remote inn in the suburbs. His 
business, he conceived, was to remain incognito until lie should 
have communicated in private with the friends who were most like- 
ly to lend assistance to his parents, as well as to his patroness, in 
tiieir present situation of doubt and danger. Amongst these the 
most powerful was the Duke of Ormond, wnose faithful services, 
high rank, and acknowledged worth and virtue, still preserved an 
ascendency in that very court, where, in general, he was regarded 
as out of favor. Indeed, so much consciousness did Charles display 
in his demeanor toward that celebrated noble, and servant of his fa- 
ther, that Buckingham once took the freedom to ask the king whether 
the Duke of Ormond had lost his majesty’s favor, or his majesty 
the duke’s? since, whenever they chanced to meet, the king ap- 
peared the more embarrassed of the two. But it was not Peveril’s 
good fortune to obtain the advice or countenance of this distin- 
guished person. His Grace of Oimond was not at that time in Lon- 
don. 

The letter, about the delivery of which the countess had seemed 
most anxious after that to the Duke of Ormond, was addressed to 
Captain Barstow (a Jesuit, whose real name w^as Penwicke), to be 
found, or at least to be heard of, in the house of one Martin Ciiristal 
in the ISavoy. To this place hastened Peveril upon learning the ab- 
sence of the Duke of Ormond. He was not ignorant of the danger 
which he personally incurred, b}’’ thus becoming a medium of com- 
munication betwixt a Popish priest and a suspected Catholic. But 
when he undertook the perilous commission of his patroness, lie 
had done so frankly, and with the unreserved resolution of seiwing 
her in the manner in which she most desired her affairs to be con- 
ducted. Yet he could not forbear some secret apprehension when 
he felt himself engaged in the labyrinth of passages and galleries 
which led to diftenmt obscure sets of apartments in the ancient 
building termed the Savoy. 

This antiquated and almost ruinous pile occupied a part of the 
site of the public offices in the Strand, commonly called Somerset 
House. The Savoy had been formerly a palace, and took its name 
from an Earl of Savoy, by whom it was founded. It had been the 
habitation of John of Gaunt and various persons of distinction- 
had become a coiivent, an hospital, and finally, in Charles 11. ’s 
time, a waste of dilapidated buildings and ruinous apartments, in- 
habited chieliy by those who had some connection with, or depend- 


rJSVElUL UJf THE FEAit. 


289 

•nc« upon, the neighboring palace of Somerset House, which, more 
fortunate than the Savoy, had still retained its royal title, and T^as 
the abode of a part of the court, and occasionally of the king him- 
self, who had apartments there. 

It was not without several inquiries, and more than one mistake, 
that, at the end of a long and dusky passage, coiiiposed of boards so 
wasted by time that they threatened to give way under his feet, 
.lulian at lengtli found the name of Martin Christal, broker and ap- 
praiser, upon a shattered door. He was about to knock, when some 
one pulled his cloak; and looking round, to his great astonishment, 
which indeed almost amounted to tear, he saw the little mute 
damsel who had accompanied him for a part of the way on his 
voyage from the Isle of Man. “ Feuella!” lie exclaimed, forgetting 
that she could neither hear nor reply — “ Fenella! Can this be you?” 
Fenella, assuming the air of warning and authority, which she had 
heretofore endeavored to adopt toward him,, interposed betwixt 
Julian and the door at which he was about to knock — pointed with 
her finger toward it in a prohibiting manner, and at the same time 
bent her brows and shook her head sternly. 

After a moment’s consideration, Julian could place but one inter- 
pretation upon Fenella’s appearance and conduct, and that wms, by 
supposing her lady had come up to London, and had dispatched this 
mute attendant, as a confidential person, to apprise him of some 
change of her intended operations, which might render the delivery 
of her letters to Barstow, alias Fenwicke, supertluous, or perhaps 
dangerous. He made signs to Fenella, demanding to know whether 
she had any commissiofi from tlie countess. She nodded. “Had 
she any letter?” he continued by the same mode of inquiry. IShe 
shook her head impatiently, and, walking hastily along the passage, 
made a signal to him to follow. He did so, having little doubt that 
he was about to be conducted into the countess's presence; but 
his surprise, at first excited by Fenella’s appearance, w'as increased 
by the rapidity and ease with which she seemed to track the dusky 
and decayed mazes of the dilapidated Savoy, equal to that with 
which he had seen her formerly lead the way through the gloomy 
vaults of Castle Rushin, in the Isle of Man. 

■When he recollected, however, that F'enella had accompanied the 
countess on a long visit to London, it appeared not improbable that 
she might then have acquired this local knowledge which seemed so 
accurate. Many foreigners, dependent on the queen or queen 
dowager, had apartments in the Savoy. Many Catholic priests also 
found refuge in its recesses, under various disguises, and in defiance 
of the severity of the laws against Popery. What wss more likely 
than that the Countess of Derby, a Catholic and a Frenchwoman, 
should have had secret commissions amongst such people; and that 
the execution of such should be intrusted, at least occasionally, to 
Fenella? 

Thus reflecting, Julian continued to follow her light and active 
foosteps as she glided from the Strand to Spring Garden, and thence 
into the Park, 

It was still early in the morning, and the Mall w'as untenanted, 
save by a few w'alkers, who frequented these shades for the whole- 
some purposes of air and exercise. Splendor, gayety, and display, 

1 % 


^90 PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 

did not come forth, at that period, until noon was approaching. 
All readers have heard that the whole space where the Horse Guards 
are now built, made, in the time of Charles 11., apart ot St. James's 
Park; and that the old building, now called the Treasury, was part 
of the ancient Palace of Whitehall, which was thus immediately 
connected with the park. The canal had been constructed, by the 
celebrated Le Notre, for the purpose of draining the park; and it 
communicated with the Thames by a decoy, stocked with a quantity 
of the rarer waterfowl. It was toward this decoy that Fenella bent 
her way with unabated speed ; and they were approaching a group 
of two or three gentlemen, who sauntered by its banks, when, on 
looking closely at him who appeared to be the chief of the party, 
Julian felt his heart beat uncommonly thick, as it conscious of ap- 
proaching some one of the highest consequence. 

The person whom he looked upon w^as past the middle age of 
life, of a dark complexion, corresponding with the long, black, full- 
bottomed periwig, which he wore instead of his own hair. His dress 
was plain black velvet, with a diamond star, however, on his cloak, 
which hung carelessly over one shoulder. His features, strongly 
lined, even to harshness, had yet an expression of dignified good- 
humor; he was well and strongly built, walked upright and yet 
easily, and had upon the whole the air of a person of the highest 
consideration. He kept rather in advance of his companions, but 
turned and spoke to them, from time to time, with much affability, 
and probably with some liveliness, judging by the smiles, and some- 
times the scarce restrained laughter, % which some of his sallies 
were received by his attendants. They also wore only morning 
dresses; but their looks and manner were those of men of ranl^, in 
presence of one in station still more elevated. They shared the at- 
tention ot their principal in common with seven or eight little black 
curly-haired spaniels, or rather, as they are now called, cockers, 
which attended their master as closely, and perhaps with as deep 
sentiments of attachment, as the bipeds of the group; and whose 
gambols, which seemed to afford him much amusement, he some- 
times checked and sometimes encouraged. In addition to this pas- 
time, a lackey, or groom, was also in attendance, with one or two 
little baskets and bags, from which the gentleman wc have described 
took, from time to time, a handful of seeds, and amused himself 
with throwing them to the waterfowl. 

This, the king’s favorite occupation, together with his remarka- 
ble countenance, and the deportment of the rest of the company to- 
ward him, satisfied Julian Peveril that he was approaching, perhaps 
indecorously, near to the person of Charles Stewart, the second of 
that unhappy name. 

While he hesitated to follow his dumb guide any nearer, and felt 
the embarrassment of being unable to communicate to her his 
repugnance to further intrusion, a person in the royal retinue touched 
a light and lively air on the flageolet, at a signal from the king, wdio 
desired to have some tune repeated which had struck him in the 
theater on the preceding evening. While the good-natured monarch 
marked time with his foot and ivitli the motion of his hand, Fenella 
continued to approach him, and threw into her manner the appear- 


1*EVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 291 

ance of one who w^as attracted, as if. were in spite of herself, by th« 
sounds of the instrument. 

Anxious to know how this was to end, and astonished to see th« 
dumb girl imitate so accurately the manner ot one who actually 
heard the musical notes, Peveril also drew near, though at some- 
what greater distance. 

The kiugTooked good-humoredly at both, as it he admitted their 
musical enthusiasm as an excuse tor their intrusion; but his eyes 
became riveted on Fenella, whose face and appearance, although 
rather singular than beautiful, had something in them wild, fan- 
tastic, and, as being so, even captivating, to an eye which had been 
gratified perhaps to satiety with the ordinary forms of female beauty. 
She did not appear to notice how closely she was observed; but, as 
it acting under an irresistible impulse, derived from the sounds to 
which she seemed to listen, she undid the bodkin round which her 
long tresses were winded, and flinging them over her slender per- 
son, as it using them as . a natural veil, she began to dance, with in- 
finite grace and agility, to the tune which the flageolet played. 

Peveril lost almost his sense of the king’s presence, when he ob- 
served with what wonderful grace and agility Fenella kept time to 
notes w^hich could only be known to her by the motions of the 
musician’s fingers, lie had heard, indeed, among other prodigies, 
of a person in Fenella’s unhappy situation acquiring, by some un- 
accountable and mysterious tact, the power of acting as an instiu- 
mental musician, nay, becoming so accurate a performer as to be 
capable of leading a musical band; and he had also heard of deaf 
and dumb persons dancing with sufficient accuracy by observing 
the motions ot their partner. But Fenella’s performance seemed 
more wonderful than either, since the musician was guided by his 
written notes, and the dancer by the motions of the other; whereas 
Fenella had no intimation save wdiat she seemed to gather, with in- 
finite accuracy, by observing the motion of the artist’s fingers on his 
small instrument. 

As for the king, who was ignorant of the particular circumstances 
w^hich rendered Fenella’s performance almost marvelous, he w^as 
contented, at her first commencement, to authorize wrhat seemed to 
him the frolic of this singular-looking damsel by a good-humored 
smile; but when he perceived the exquisite truth and justice, asw'ell 
as the wonderful combination of grace and agility with which she 
executed to his favorite air a dance which was perfectly new to him, 
Charles turned his mere acquiescence into something like enthusi- 
astic applause. He bore time to her motions with the movement of 
his foot — applauded -srith head and with hand— and seemed, like 
herself, carried away by the enthusiasm of the gestic art. 

After a rapid yet graceful succession of entrechats, Fenella intro- 
duced a slow movement, wdiich terminated the dance; (hen dropping 
a profound courtesy, she continued to stand ‘motionless before the 
king, her arms folded on her bosom, her head stooped, and her eyes 
cast down, after the manner of an Oriental slavey while through the 
misty veil of her shadowy locks it might be obseiwed that the color 
which exercise had called to her cheeks w^as dying fast away, and 
resigning them to their native dusky hue. 

“By my honor,” exclaimed the king, “she is like a fairy who 


m 


PBTEKIL 01 THE PEAK. 


trips it in moonlight. There must he rr^ore of air and fire than of 
earth in her composition. It is well poor Nelly Gwyn saw her not, 
or she would have died of griet and envy. Come, gentlemen, 
which of you contrivea this pretty piece of morning pastime?” 

The courtiers looked at each other, hut none of them felt au- 
thorized to claim tlie merit of a service so agreeable. 

“We must ask the quick-eyed nymph herself, then,” said the 
king; and, looking at Fenella, he added, “ Tell us, my pretty one, 
to whom we owe the pleasure of seeing you? 1 suspect the Duke 
of Buckingham; for this is exactly a tour de son metier." 

Fenella, on observing that the king addressed her, bowed low, and 
shook her head, in signal that she did not understand what he said. 
“ Odds-fish, that is true,” said the king; “ she must perforce be a 
foreigner — her complexion and agility speak it. France or Italy has 
had the molding of these elastic limbs, dark cheek, and eye of 
fire.” He then put to her in I'rench, and again in Italian, the ques- 
tion, “ By whom she had been sent hither?” 

At the second repetition, Fenella threw back her veiling tresses, so 
as to show the melancholy which sat on her brow; while she sadly 
shook her head, and intimated by imperfect muttering, but of the 
softest and most plaintive kind, her organic deficiency. 

“ Is it possible Nature can have made sucli a fault?” said 
Charles. “ Can she have left so curious a piece as thou art without 
the melody of voice, whilst she has made thee so exquisitely sensible 
to the beauty of sound? Stay: what means this? and what young 
fellow are you bringing up there? Oh, the master of the show, 1 
suppose. Friend,” he added, addressing himself to Pev^eiil, who, 
on the signal of Fenella, stepped forw'ard almost instinctively, and 
kneeled down,- “we thank thee for the pleasure of this morning. 
My lord marquis, you rooked me at piquet last night; for which 
disloyal deed thou shalt now atone by giving a couple of pieces to 
this honest youth and five to the girl.” 

As the nobleman drew^ out his purse, and came forward to per- 
form the king’s generous commission, Julian felt some embarrass- 
ment ere he was able to explain that he had no title to be benefited 
by the young person’s performance, and that his majesty had mis- 
taken his character. 

“And w’ho art thou, then, my friend?” said Charles; “but, 
above all, and particularly, w^ho is this dancing nymph, wdiom thou 
standest waiting on like an attendant fawn?” 

“ The young person is a retainer of the Countess-Dowager of 
Derby, so please your majesty,” said Peveril, in a low tone of voice; 
“ and 1 am—” 

“Hold, hold,” said the king; “this is a dance to anotlier tune, 
and not fit for a place so public. Hark thee, frientl; do thou and the 
young woman follow'Einpson w'here he will conduct thee. Emp- 
son, carry them — hark in thy ear.’’, 

“ May it please your naajesty, 1 ought to say,” said Peveril, “ that 
l am guiltless of any purpose of intrusion — ” 

“ Now a plague on him who can take no hint,” said the king, 
cutting short his apology. “ Odds-fish, man, there are times when 
civility is the greatest impertinence in the world. Do thou follow 


yiTBRIL or THfl PBjLK. »95 

Empson, and amuse tliyeelf for a half hour’s space with the falry’a 
company* till we shall send for you.” 

Charles spoke this not without casting an anxious eye around, and 
in a tone which intimated apprehension of being overheard. Julian 
could only bow obedience, and follow Empson, who w^as the same 
person that played so rarely on the flageolet. 

^Vllen they were out of sight of the king and his party, the 
musician wished to enter into conversation with his companions, and 
addressed himself first to Fenella, with a broad oompliment of, 
” By the mass, ye dance rarely — ne’er a slut on the boards shows 
such a shank! 1 would be content to play to vou till my throat 
were as dry as my whistle. Come, be a little free— old Rowley will 
not quit the park till nine. 1 will carry you to Spring Gardens, and 
besfow^ sweet-cakes and a quart of Rhenish on both of you; and weil 
be cameradoes. What the devil? no answ^er? How’s this, brother! 
Is this neat wench of yours deaf or dumb, or both? 1 should laugh 
at that, and she trip it so well to the flageolet.” 

To rid himself of this fellow’s discourse, Peveril answered him in 
French, that he was a foreigner, and spoke no English; glad to 
escape, though at the expense of a fiction, from the additional em- 
barrassment of a fool, wdio w^as likely to ask more questions than his 
own wisdom might have enabled him to answer. 

'' Eir anger— X\i^X means stranger,” muttered their guide; “more 
French dogs and jades come to lick the good English butter off our 
bread, or perhaps an Ralian puppet-show. Well, if it were not 
that they have a mortal enmity to the whole gamut, this were enough 
to make any honest fellow turn Puritan. But if 1 am to play to her 
at the duchess’s. I’ll be d— d but I put her out in the tune, just to 
teach her to have the impudence to come to England, and to speak 
no English.” 

Having muttered to himself this truly British resolution, the 
musician walked briskly on toward a large house near the bottom of 
St. James’s Street, and entered the court, by a grated door, from 
the park, of which the mansion commanded an extensive prospect. 

Peveril finding himself in front of a handsome portico, under 
which opened a stately pair of folding-doors, was about to ascend 
the steps that led to the main entrance, when his guide seized him 
by the arm, exclaiming, ‘‘Hold, mounseer! What! youil lose 
nothing, I see, for want of courage; but j^ou must keep the back 
way, for all your fine doublet. Here it is not, Knock and it shall be 
opened; but may be instead, Knock and you shall be knocked.” 

Suffering' himself to be guided by Empson, Julian deviated from 
the principal door to one which opened, willi less ostentation, in an 
angle of the court-yard. On a modest tap from the flute-player, ad- 
mittance was afforded him and his companions by a footman, wdio 
conducted 'them through a variety of stone passages, to a very hand- 
some summer parlor, where a lady, or something resembling one, 
dressed in a style of extra elegance, was trifling with a play-book 
wliile she finished her chocolate. It \yould not be easy to describe 
her but by weighing her natural good qualities against the affecta- 
tions which counterbalanced them. She "would have been hand- 
iome, but for rouge and minauderie — would have been civil, but for 
overstrained airs of patronage and condescension— would have had 


f 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


291 

an agreeable voice, bad she spoken in her natural tone — and fine 
eyes, had she not made such desperate hard use ot them. She could 
only spoil a pretty ankle by too liberal display; but her shape, though 
she could not yet be thirty years old, had the embonpoint which 
might have suited better with ten years more advanced. She 
pointed Einpson to a seat with the air of a duchess, and asked 
him, languidly, how he did this age, that she had not seen him? 
and what folks these were he had brought with him? 

“Foreigners, madam; d— d foreigners,” answered Empson; 
“ starving beggars, that our old friend has picked up in the park 
this morning — the wench dances, and the fellow plays on the Jew’s 
trump, 1 believe. On my life, madam, 1 begin to be ashamed of 
old Rowley; 1 must discard him, unless he keeps better company in 
future.” 

“ Fie, Empson,” said the lady; “ consider it is our duty to coun- 
tenance him, and keep him afloat; and indeed 1 always make a prin- 
ciple of it. Hark ye, he comes not hither this morning?” 

“ He will be here,” answered Empson, “ in the walking of a min- 
uet.” 

“My God!” exclaimed the lady, with unaffected alarm; and 
starting up with utter neglect of her usual and graceful languoi, she 
tripped as swiftly as a milk-maid into an adjoining apartment, where 
they heard presently a few words ot eager and animated discussion. 

“ Something to be put out of the way, 1 suppose,” said Empson. 
“ Well for madam 1 gave her the hint. There he goes, the happy 
swain.” 

Julian was so situated, that he could, from the same casement 
through -which Empson was peeping, observe a man in a laced 
roquelaure, and carrying his rapier under his arm, glide from the 
door by which he had himself entered, and out of the court, keep- 
ing as much as possible under the shade of the buildings. 

The lady re-entered at this moment, and observing how Empson ’s 
eyes were directed, said with a slight appearance of hurry, “ A 
gentleman of the Duchess of Portsmouth’s with a billet; and so 
tiresomely pressing for an answer, that 1 was obliged to write with- 
out my diainond pen. 1 have daubed my fingers, 1 dare say,” she 
added, looking at a very pretty hand, and presently after dipping 
her fingers in a little silver vase of rose-water. “ But that little ex- 
otic monster of yours, Empson, 1 hope she really understands no 
English? On my life she colored. Is she such a rare dancer? 1 
must see her dance, and hear him play on the Jew’s harp.” 

“Dance!” replied Empson; “she danced well enough when J 
played to her. 1 can make any thing dance. Old Counsellor Club- 
foot danced when he had a fit of the gout; you have seen no such 
passeul in the theater. I would engage to make the Archbishop of 
Canterbury dance I he hays like a Frenchman. There is not hing in 
dancing; it all lies in the music. Rowley does not know that now. 
He saw this poor wench dance; and thought so much on’t, when it 
was all along of me. 1 would have defied her to sit still. And 
Rowley gives her the credit of it, and five pieces to boot; and 1 have 
only two for my morning’s work!” 

“ True, Master Empson,” said the lady; “ but you are of th* 
family, though in a lower station; and you ought to consider — ” 


PEVEllIL OF THE PEAK. ^95 

“ By G— , madam,’' answered Empson, “ all 1 consider is that 1 
play the best flageolet in England; and that they can no more sup- 
ply my place, if they were to discard me, than they could fill 
Thames from Fleet Ditch.” 

“ W ell, Master Empson, 1 do not dispute but you are a man of tal- 
ents,” replied the lady; ‘‘ still 1 say, mind the main chance — you 
please the ear to-day — another has the advantage of you to-morrow.” 

‘‘ Never, mistress, while ears have the heavenly power of distin- 
guishing one note from another.” 

” Heavenly power, say j^ou, Master Empson?’ said the lady. 

“ Ay, madam, heavenly; for some very neat verses which we had 
at our festival say, 

“ ‘ Wliat know we of the blest above ■ 

But that they sing and that they love?’ 

It is Master Waller wrote them, as 1 think; who, upon my word, 
ought to be encouraged. ’ ’ 

” And so should you, my dear Empson,” said the dame yawning, 
” were it only tor the honor you do to your own profession. But in 
the meantime, will you ask these people to have some retreshment? 
and will you take some 3 ^ourself? the chocolate is that which the 
Embassador Portuguese fellow brought over to the queen.” 

‘‘ If it be genuine,” said the musician. 

“ How sir,” said the fair one, half rising from her pile of cush- 
ions — “Not genuine, and in this house! Let me understand you. 
Master Empson — 1 think, when 1 first saw you, you scarce knew 
chocolate from cofliee.” 

‘‘ By G — , madam,” answered the flageolet -player, ” j'ou are per- 
fectly light. And how can 1 show better how much I have 
profited by 3 ^ 111 * lad 3 ^ship’s excellent cheer except by being critical 1 ” 

” You stand excused. Master Empson,” said the petite mait- 
resse, sinking gently back on the downy couch, from which a mo- 
mentary iiritation had startled her — “ 1 think the chocolate will 
please 3 mu, though scarce equal to what we had from the Spanish 
resident Mendoza. But w^e must offer these strange people some- 
thing. W ill you ask them if they would have coffee and chocolate, 
or cold wild-lowd, fruit, and wine! They must be treated so as to 
show them where they are, since here they are.” 

‘‘ Unquestionably, madam,” said Empson; ‘‘Blit 1 have just at 
this instant forgot the French for chocolate, hot bread, coffee, 
game, and drinkables.” 

It is odd,” said the lady; ” and 1 have forgot my French and 
Italian at the same moment. But it signifies little — 1 will order the 
things to be brought, and they will remember the names of them 
themselves.” 

Empson laughed loudly at this jest, and pawned his soul that the 
cold sirloin which entered immediately after was the best emblem 
of roast-beef all the world over. Plentiful refreshments were 
offered to all the party, of which both Fenella and Peveril partook. 

In the meanwhile the flageolet-player drew closer to the side of the 
lady of the mansion— -their intimacy was cemented, and their spirits 
set afloat by a glass of liqueur, which gave them additional con- 
fidence in discussing the characters, as well of the superior attend- 


puYERiL or Taa pijlk. 


%96 

jints of the court, as of the Inferior ranV, to which they themielTen 
might be supposed to belong. 

The lady, indeed, during this conversation, frequently exerted 
her complete' and absolute superiority over Master Empson; in 
whicn that musical gentleman humbly acquiesced whenever the cir- 
cumstance was recalled to his attention, whether in the way of blunt 
contradiction, sarcastic insinuation, downright assumption of 
higher importance, or in any of the other various modes by which 
such superiority is usually asserted and maintained. But the lady’s 
obvious love of scandal was the lure which very soon brought her 
again down from the dignified part which for a moment she as- 
sumed, and placed her once more on a gossiping level with her 
companion. 

Tlieir conversation was too trivial, and too much allied to petty 
court intrigues, with which he was totally unacquainted, to be in 
the least interesting to Julian. As it continued for more than an 
hour, he soon ceased to pay the least attention to a discourse consist- 
ing of nicknames, patchwork, and innuendo; and employed him- 
self in reflecting on his own complicated affairs, and the probable 
issue of his approaching audience with the king, which had been 
brought about by so singular an agent, and by means so unexpected. 
He often looked to his guide, Fenella; and observed that she was, 
for the greater part of the time, drowned in deep and abstracted 
meditation. But three or four times — and it was when the assumed 
airs and affected importance of the musician and their hostess rose 
to the most extravagant excess — he observed that Fenella dealt ask- 
ance on them some of those bitter and almost blighting elfin looks, 
which in the Isle of Man were held to imply contemptuous execra- 
tion. There was something in all her manner so extraordinary, 
joined to her sudden appearance, and her demeanor in the king’s 
presence, so oddly, yet so well contrived to procure him a private 
audience — which he might, by graver means, have sought in vain — 
that it almost justified the Idea, though he smiled at it internally, 
that the little mute agent was aided in her machinations by the kin- 
dred imps, to whom, according to Manx superstition, her genealogy 
was to be traced. 

Another idea sometimes occurred to Julian though he rejected the 
question, as being equally wild with those doubts which referred 
Fenella to a race different from that of mortals. “ Wiis she really 
afflicted with those organical imperfections which had always 
seemed to sever her from humanity? If not, what could be the. 
motives of so young a creature practicing so dreadful a penance tor 
such an unremitted term of years I And how formidable must be 
the strength of mind which could condemn itself to so terrific a sac- 
rifice. How deep and strong the purpose for which it was under- 
taken !” 

But a brief recollection of past events enabled him to dismiss this 
conjecture as altogether wild and visionary. He had but to call to 
memory the various stratagems practiced by his light-hearted com- 
panion, the young Earl of Derby, upon this forlorn girl — the con- 
versations held in her presence, in which the character of a creature 
so irritable and sensitive upon all occasions, was freely, and some- 
lime« satirically discussed, without her expressing the least ac- 


PBTBRIL OJ THB 


t97 

quaintance with what was going forward, to convince him that so 
deep a deception could never have been practiced for so many years, 
by a being of a turn ot mind so peculiarly jealous and irascible. 

He renounced, therefore, the idea, and turned his thouglits to his 
own aftairs and his approaching interview with his sovereign j in 
which meditation we propose to leave him, until we briefly review 
the changes which had taken place in the situation of Alice Bridge- 
north. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

I fear th© devil worse when ^own and cassock. 

Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin’s cloak, 

Conceals his cloven hoof. 

Anonymout. 

Julian Peveuil had scarce set sail for Whitehaven, when 
Alice Bridgenorth and her governante, at the hasty commaiid of her 
father, were embarked with equal speed and secrecy on board ot a 
bark bound tor Liverpool. Christian accompanied them on their 
voyage, as the friend to whose guardianship Alice was to be conn 
sign^ during any future separation from her father, and whose 
amusing conversation, joined to his pleasing though cold manners, 
as well as his near relationship, induced Alice, in her forlorn situa- 
tion, to consider her fate as fortunate in having such a guardian. 

At Liverpool, as the reader already knows, Christian took the first 
overt step in the villainy which he had contrived against the inno- 
cent girl, by exposing her at a meeting-house to the unhallowed 
gaze of Chitfinch, in order to convince hi m she was possessed of such 
uncommon beauty as might well deserve the infamous promotion . 
to which they meditated to raise her. 

Highly satisfied with her personal appearance, Chifiinch was no 
less so with the sense and delicacy of her conversation, when he met 
her in company with her uncle afterward in London. The simplic- 
ity, and at the same time the spirit of her remarks, made him re- 
gard her as his scientific attendant the cook might have done a 
newly invented sauce, sufficiently piquante in its qualities to awaken 
the jaded appetite of a cloyed and gorged epicure. She was, he said, 
and swore, the very corner-stone on which, with proper manage- 
ment, and with his instructions, a few honest fellows might build 
a court fortune. 

That the necessary introduction might take place, the confederates 
judged fit she should be put under the charge of an experienced 
lady, whom some called Mistress Chitfinch, and others Chifiinch’s 
mistress — one of those obliging creatures who are willing to dis- 
charge all the duties of a wife, without the inconvenient and indis- 
soluble ceremony. 

It was one, and not perhaps the least prejudicial consequence ot 
the license of that ill-governed time, tliat the bounds betwixt virtue 
and vice were so far smoothed down and levelled, that the frail 
wife, or the tender friend who was no wife, did not necessarily lose 
their place in society but, on the contrary, it they moved in the 
higher circles, were i>ennitted and encouraged to mingle with 
women whose rank w'as certain, and whose reputation was un- 
tainted, 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


29 ^ 

A regular liaison, like that of Chiffinch and his fair one, inferred 
little scandal; and such was his influence as prime minister of his 
master’s pleasures, that, as Charles himself expressed it, the lady 
whom we introduced to our readers in the last chapter, had obtained 
a brevet commission to rank as a married woman. And to do the 
gentle dame justice, no wufe could have been more attentive to for- 
ward his plans, or more liberal in disposing of his income. 

She inhabited a set of apartments called Chiffinch ’s~the scene of 
many an intrigue, both of love and politics; and where Charles 
often held his private parties for the evening, when, as frequently 
happened, the ill-humor of the Duchess of Portsmouth, his reign- 
ing sultana, prevented his supping with her. The hold Mdiich such 
an arrangement gave a man like Chiffinch, used as he well knew 
hew to use it, made him of too much consequence to be slighted 
even by the first persons in the state, unless they stood aloof from 
all manner of politics and court intrigue. 

In the charge of Mistress Chiffinch, and of him whose name she 
bore, Edward Christian placed the daughter of his sister and of his 
confiding friend, calmly contemplating"^ her ruin as an event certain 
to follow; and hoping to ground upon it his own chance of a more 
assured fortune than a life spent in intrigue had hitherto been able 
to procure for him. 

The innocent Alice, without being able to discover what w^as 
wrong either in the scenes of unusual luxury with which she was 
surrounded, or in the manners of her hostess, which, Doth from nat- 
ure and policy, were kind and caressing— felt nevertheless an in- 
stinctive apprehension that all was not right— a feeling in the 
human mind, allied, irerhaps, to that sense of danger which animals 
exhibit when placed in the vicinity of the natural enemies of their 
race, and which makes birds cower when the hawk is in the air, 
and beasts tremble when the tiger is abroad in the desert. There was 
a heaviness at her hea^’t which she could not dispel; and the few 
hours which she had already spent at Chiffinch’s were like those 
passed in prison by one unconscious of the cause or event of his 
captivity. It was the third morning after her arrival in London that 
the scene took place which we now recur to. 

The impertinence and vulgarity of Empson, which was permitted 
to him as an unrivaled performer upon his instrument, were ex- 
hausting themselves at the expense of all other musical professors, 
and Mrs. Chiffinch was listening with careless indifference, when 
some one was heard speaking loudly, and with animation, in the 
inner apartment. 

“ Oh, gemini and gilliflower water!” exclaimed the damsel, star- 
tled out of her fine airs into her natural vulgarity of exclamation, 
and running to the door of communication — ” if he has not come 
back again after all? and if old Rowdey — ” 

A tap at the further and opposite door here arrested her attention 
—she quitted the handle of that which she was about to open as 
speedily as if it had burnt her fingers, and, moving back toward her 
couch, asked, “ Who is there?” 

” Old Rowley himself, madam,” said the king, entering th« 
apartment with his usual air of easy composure. 

” O crimini! your majesty! 1 thought—” 


PEVjflllL OF THE PEAK. ^99 

"That 1 was out of hearing, doubtless,” said the king; "and 
•poke of me as folks speak of absent friends. Make no apology. I 
think 1 have heard ladies say of their lace, that a rent is better than 
a darn. Nay, be seated. Where is ChifBnch?” 

" tie is down at York House, your majesty,” said the dame re- 
covering, though with no small difficulty, the calm attectatinn of 
her usual demeanor. " Shall 1 send j^our majesty’s commands?” 

" 1 wdll wait his return,” said the king. " Permit me to taste your 
chocolate.” 

"There is some fresh frothed in the office,” said the lady; and 
using a little silver call, or whistle, a black boy, superbly dressed, 
like an Oriental page, with gold bracelets on his naked arms, and a 
gold collar around his equally bare neck, attended with the tavoiite 
beverage of the morning, in an apparatus of the richest china. 

While he sipped his cup of chocolate, the king looked round the 
apartment, and observing Fenella, Peveril, and the musician, ho 
remained standing beside a large Indian screen, he continued, ad- 
dressing Mistress Chiffinch, though with polite indifference, “ 1 
sent 3^011 the fiddles this morning— or rather the flute— Empson, and 
a fairy elf whom 1 met in the Park, who dances divinely. She 
has brought us the very newest saraband from the Court of Queen 
Mab, and 1 sent her here, that you may see it at leisure.” 

" Your majesty does me by far too much honor,” said Chiffinch, 
her eyes properly cast down, and her accents minced into becoming 
humility. 

" Nay, little Chiffinch,” answered the king, in a tone of as con- 
temptuous familiarity as was consistent with his good-breeding, " it 
w^as not altogether for thine own private ear, though quite deserv- 
ing of all sweet sounds; but 1 thought Nelly had been with thee 
this morning.” 

" 1 can send Bajazet for her, j’-our majesty,” answered the lady. 

" Nay, I will not trouble your little heathen sultan to go so far. 
Still it strikes me that Chiffinch said you had company — some coun- 
try cousin, or sudi a matter. Is there not such a person?” 

" There is a young person from the country,” said 3listress Chif- 
finch, striving to conceal a considerable portion of embarrassment; 
" but she is unprepared for such an honor as to be admitted into 
your majesty’s presence, and — ” 

" And therefore the fitter to receive it, Chiffinch. There is noth- 
ing in nature so beautiful as the first blush of a little rustic between 
joy and fear, and wonder and curiosity. It is the down on the 
peach — pity it decays so soon! the fruit remains, but the first high 
coloring and exquisite flavor are gone. Ne\'er put up thy lip for 
the matter, Chiffinch, for it is as 1 tell you ; so pray let us have la 
belle cousine.’' 

Mistress Chiffinch, more embarrassed than ever, again advanced 
toward the door of communication, which she had been in the act 
of opening when his majesty entered. But just as she coughed 
pretty loudly, perhaps as a signal to some one within, voices were 
again heard in a raised tone of altercation — the door was flung open, 
and Alice rushed out of the inner apartment, followed to the door 
of it by the enterprising Duke of Buckingham, wdio stood fixed with 


300 


PBTKRIL OF THB PBAK. 


astonishment on finding his pursuit of the flying fair on# had hur- 
ried him into the presence of the king. 

Alice Bridgenorth appeared too much transported vrlth anger to 
permit her to pay attention to tlie rank or character of the company 
into which she had thus suddenly entered. “ i remain no longer 
here, madam,” she said to Mrs. Chifflnch, in a tone of uncontrol- 
lable resolution; ” 1 leave instantly a house where 1 am exposed to 
compan}'" which 1 detest, and to solicitations which 1 despise.” 

The dismayed Mrs. Chifflnch could only Implore her, in broken 
whispers, to be silent; adding, while she pointed to Charles,' who 
stood with his eyes fixed rather on his audacious courtier than on 
the game which he pursued, ” The king— the king!” 

“If 1 am in the king’s presence,” said Alice, aloud, and in the 
same torrent of passionate feeling, while her eyes sparkled through 
tears of resentment and insulted modesty, “ it is the better — it is his 
majesty’s duty to protect me; and on his protection 1 throw my- 
self.” 

These words, which were spoken aloud, and boldly, at once re- 
called Julian to himself, who had hitherto stood, as it were, bewil- 
dered. He approached Alice, and, whispering in her ear that she had 
beside her one who would defend her with his life, implored her to 
trust to his guardianship in this emergency. 

Clinging to his aim in all the ecstasy of gratitude and joy, the 
spirit which had so lately invigorated Alice in her own defense, 
gave way in a flood of tears, when she saw herself supported by 
him whom perhaps she most wished to recognize as her protector. 
She permitted Peveril gently to draw her back toward the screen be- 
fore which he had been standing; where, holding by his arm, but 
at the same time endeavoring to conceal herself behind him, they 
waited the conclusion of a scene so singular. 

The king seemed at first so much surprised at the unexpected ap- 
parition of the Duke of Buckingham as to pay little or no attention 
to Alice, who had been the means of thus unceremoniously intro- 
ducing his ^race into the presence at a most unsuitable moment. In 
that intriguing court, it had not been the first time that the duke 
had ventured to enter the lists of gallantry in rivalry of his sover- 
eign, which made the present insult the more intolerable. His pur- 
pose of lying concealed in those private apartments was explained 
by the exclamations of Alice; and Charles, notwithstanding the pla- 
cidity of his disposition, and his habitual guard over his ""passions, 
resented the attempt to seduce his destined mistress as an Eastern 
sultan would have done the insolence ot a vizier, who anticipated 
his Intended purchases ot captive beauty in the slave market. The 
swarthy feature? of Charles reddened, and the strong lines on his 
dark visage seemed to become inflated as he saicl, in a voice which 
faltered with passion, “Buckingham, you dared not have thus in- 
sulted your equal! To your master you may securely offer any 
affront, since his rank glues his sword to the scabbard.” 

The haughty duke did not brook this taunt unanswered. “ My 
sword,” he said, with emphasis, “ was never in the scabbard when 
your majesty’s service required it should be unsheathed. ” 

“ Your grace means, when its service was required for its ma»- 
ter'8 interest,” said the king; “ for you could only gain the coronet, 


PfiVERlL OP THE PEAK. 


m 

of a duko by flghtinff for tbe royal crown. But It is over— 1 hav« 
treated you as a friend — a companion — almost an equal — you have 
repaid me with insolence and ingratitude.” 

” Sire,” answered the fluke, lirmly, but respectfully, “lam un- 
happy in your displeasure; yet thus tar fortunate, that while your 
words can confer honor, they cannot impair or take it away. It is 
hard,” he added, lowering his voice, so as only to be heard by the 
king — '•* it is hard that the squall of a peevish w'ench should cancel 
the services of so many years!” 

“ It is harder,” said the king, in the same subdued tone, which 
both preserved through the rest of the convei-sation, ” that a wench’s 
bright eyes can mahe a nobleman forget the decencies due to his 
sovereign’s privacy.” 

” May I presume to ask your majesty what decencies are those?” 
said the duke. 

Charles bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. ” Buckingham,” 
he said, this is a foolish business: and we must not forget (as we 
have already done), that we have an audience to witness this scene, 
and should walk the stage with dignity. 1 will show you your fault 
in private.” 

” It is enough that 5 mur majesty has been displeased, and tJiat I 
have unhappily been the occasion,” said the duke, kneeling; ‘‘al- 
though quite ignorant of any purpose beyond a few words ^f gal- 
lantry; and 1 sue thus low for your majesty’s pardon.” 

So saying, he kneeled gracefully dovyn. ‘‘ Thou hast it, George,” 
said the placable prince. ‘‘1 believe thou wilt be sooner tired of 
offending than 1 of forgiving. ” 

” Long may your majesty live to give the offense, with which it 
is your royal pleasure at present to charge my innocence,” said the 
duke. 

TV hat mean you by that, my lord?” said Charles, the angry 
shade returning to his brow for a moment. 

” My liege,” replied the duke, ‘‘ you are too honorable to deny 
your custom of shooting with Cupid’s bird-bolts in other men’s 
warrens. You have ta’en the royal right of free-forestry over every 
man’s park. It is hard that you sho\ild be so much displeased at 
hearing a chance arrow whiz near your own pales.” 

” No more ou’t,” said the king;'” but let us see where the dove 
has harbored.” 

” The Helen has found a Paris while we were quarreling,” re- 
plied the duke. 

Rather an Orpheus,” said the king; ‘‘ and what is worse, one 
that is already provided with a Eurydice. She is clingmg to the 
fiddler.” 

” It is mere fright,” said Buckingham, ” like Rochester’s, when 
he crept into the bass-viol to hide himself from Sir Dermot O’Cleaver. 

‘‘ We must make the people show their talents,” said the king, 
” and stop their mouths with money and civility, or we shall have 
this foolish encounter over half the town.” 

The king then approached Julian, and desired him to take his in- 
strument, and cause his female companion to perform a saraband. 

” 1 had already the honor to inform your majesty,” said Julian, 


302 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


“ that 1 cannot contribute to your pleasure in the way you com- 
mand me; and that this youne: person is — ” 

“A retainer ot the Lady Fowls, ” said the king, upon whose 
mind things not counected with his pleasures made a very slight 
impression. “Poor lady, she is in trouble about the lords in the 
Tower.” 

“ Pardon me, sir,” said Julian, “ she is a dependent of the Count- 
ess of Derby.” 

“ True, true,” answered Charles; “it is indeed of Lady Derby, 
who hath also her own distresses in these times. Do you know who 
taught the young person to dance? Some of her steps mightily re- 
semble Le Jeune’s of Paris.” 

“ 1 presume she was taught abroad, sir,” said Julian: “ for my- 
self, 1 am charged with some weighty business by the countess, 
which I would willingly communicate to your majesty.” 

“ AYe will send you to our Secretary of State,” said the king. 
“ But this dancing envoy will oblige us once more, will she not? 
Empson, now that I remember, it was to your pipe that she danced. 
Strike up, man, and put mettle into her feet.” 

Empson began to play a well-known measure; and, as he had 
threatened, made moie than one false note, until the king, whose 
ear was very accurate, rebuked him with, “ Siirah, art thou drunk 
at this early hour, or must tliou too be playing thy slippery tricks 
with me? Thou thinkest thou art born to beat time, but 1 will have 
time beat into thee. ” 

The hint was sufficient, and Empson took good care so to per- 
form his air as to merit his high and deserved reputation. But on 
Fenelia it made not the slightest impression. She rather leant than 
stood against the wall ot the apartment; her countenance as pale as 
death, her arms and hands hanging dowm as it stiffened, and her 
existence only testified by the sobs which agitated her bosom, and 
the tears which flowed from her halt -closed eyes. 

“ A plague on it,” said the king, “ some evil spirit is abroad this 
morning; and the w^enches are all bewitched, 1 think. Cheer up, 
my girl. AYhat, in the devil’s name, has ''changed thee at once from 
a Nymph to a Niobe? If thou standest there longer thou wilt grow 
to tlie very marble wall. Or— odds-fish, George, have you been bird- 
bolting in this quarter also?” 

Ere Buckingham could answer to this charge, Julian again 
kneeled down to the king, and prayed to be heard, were it only tor 
five minutes. “ The young wmman,” he said, “ had been long in 
attendance on the Countess ot Derby. She was bereaved ot the 
faculties ot speech and hearing.” 

“Odds-fish, man, and dances so w^ell?” said the king. “Nay, 
all Giesham College shall never make me believe that.” 

“ I would have thought it equally impossible but tor wffiat 1 to- 
day witnessed,” said Julian; “ but only permit me, sire, to deliver 
the petition of my lady the countess.” 

“And who art thou thyself, man?” said tire sovereign; “for 
though every thing which wears bodice and breast-knot has a right 
to speak to a king, and be answered, 1 know not that they have a 
title to audience through an envoy extraordinary.” 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


308 

“1 am Julian Peveril of Derbyshire,” answered the supplicant, 
“ the son of Sir Geoffrey Peveril ot Martindale Castle, who—” 

“ Body of me — the old Worcester man?” said the king. ” Odds 
ffsh, 1 remember him well— some harm has haopened to him, 1 
think. Is he not dead, or very sick at least?” 

Ill at ease, and it please your majesty, but not ill in health. He 
has been imprisoned on account ot an alleged accession to this 
Plot.” 

‘‘Look 5"ou there,” said the king; ”1 knew he was in trouble; 
and yet how to help the stout old knight, 1 can hardly tell. 1 can 
scarce escape suspicion of the Plot myself, though the principal ob- 
ject of it is to take away my otvn life. Were 1 to stir to save a 
plotter, 1 should certainly be brought in as an accessory. Bucking- 
ham, thou hast some interest with those who built this fine state en- 
gine, or at least who have driven it on— be good-natured for once, 
though it is scarcely thy wont, and interfere to shelter our old 
Worcester friend, Sir" Godfrey. You have not forgot him?” 

” No, sir,” answered the duke; ” for I never heard the name.” 

‘‘ It is Sir Geoffrey his majesty would say,” said Julian. 

‘‘ And it his majesty did say Sir Geoffrey, Master Peveril, 1 can- 
not see of what use 1 can be to your father,” replied the duke, 
coldly. ” He is accused of a heavy crime; and a British subject, so 
accused, can have no shelter either from prince or peer, but must 
stand to the award and deliverance of God and his country.” 

‘‘Now, Ileaven forgive thee thy hypocrisy, George,” said the 
king, hastil}’’. ‘‘ 1 would rather hear the devil oreach religion than 
thee teach patriotism. Thou knowest as well as 1, that the nation* 
is in a scarlet fever for fear of the pour Catholics, who are not two 
men to five hundred; and that the public mind is so harassed with 
new narrations of conspiracy, and fresh horrors every day, that peo- 
ple have as little real sense of what is just or unjust, as men who 
talk in their sleep of what is sense or nopsense. 1 have borne, and 
borne with it. 1 have seen blood flow on the scaffold, fearing to 
thwart the nation in its fury — and 1 pray to God that 1 or mine be 
not called on to answer for it. 1 will no longer swim with the toi- 
rent which honor and conscience call upon me to stem — 1 will act 
the part ot a sovereign, and save my people from doing injustice, 
even in their own despite.” 

Charles w^alked hastily up and down the room as he expressed 
these unwonted sentiments, with energy equally unwonted. After 
a momentary pause, the duKe answered him gravely, ‘‘ Spoken like 
a royal king, sir, but — pardon me— not like a king of England.” 

Charles paused, as the duke spoke, beside a window which 
looked full on Whiteliall, and his eye was involuntarily attracted 
by the fatal window of the Banqueting House out of which his un- 
happy father was conducted to execution. Charles was naturally, 
or, more properly, coustitutibnally brave, but a life of pleasure, to- 
gether with the habit of governing his course rather by what was 
expedient than by what was iight,'rendered him unapt to dare the 
same scene ot danger or of martyrdom, which had closed his 
father’s life and reign; and the thought came over his half -formed 
resolution, like the rain upon a kindling beacon. In another man, 
his perplexity would have seemed almost ludicrous; but. Charlei 


S04 


FEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


would not lose, even under these circumstances, the dignity and 
grace which were, as natural to him as his inditlereuce and good 
humor. “ Our council must decide in this matter,” he said, look- 
ing to the duke; “ and be assured, young man,” he added, address- 
ing Julian, ” your father shall not want an intercessor in his king, 
so lar as the laws will permit my interference in his behalf.” 

Julian was about to retire, when Fenella. with a marked look, 
put into his hand a slip of paper, on which she had hastily written, 
‘‘ The packet — give him the packet.” 

After a moment’s hesitation, during which he reflected that Fe- 
nella was the organ of the countess’s pleasure, Julian resolved to 
obey. ‘‘ Permit me, then, sire,” he said, ” to place in your royal 
hands this packet, intrusted to me by the Countess of Derby. The 
letters have already been once taken from me; and 1 have little hope 
that 1 can now deliver them as they are addressed. 1 place them, 
therefore, in your royal hands, certain that they will evince the in- 
nocence of the wiiter.” 

The king shook his head as he took the packet reluctantly. ‘‘ It 
is no sate oflice you have undertaken, young man. A messenger has 
sometimes his throat cut for the sake ot his dispatches. But give 
them to me; and, Chiffinch, give me wax and a taper.” He em- 
ployed himself in folding the countess’s packet in another envelope. 
” IBuckingham,” he said, “you are evidence that 1 do not read 
them till the council shall see them.” 

Buckingham approached, and ottered his services in folding ttie 
parcel, but Charles rejected his assistance; and having finished his 
•task, he sealed the packet with his own signet-ring. The duke bit 
his lip and retired. 

‘‘ And now, young man,” said the king, “ your errand is sped, so 
far as it can at present be forwarded.” 

Julian bowed deeply, as to take leave at these words, which he 
rightly interpreted as a signal for his departure. Alice Bridgenorth 
still clung to his arm, and motioned to withdravv along with him. 
The king and Buckingham looked at each other in conscious astonish- 
ment, and yet not without <v desire to smile, so strange did it seem 
to them that a prize, for which, an instant before, they had been 
mutually contending, should thus glide out of their grasp, or rather 
be borne oft by a third and very interior competitor. 

” Mistress Chiffinch,” said the king, with a hesitation which he 
could not disguise, ‘ ‘ 1 hope your tail charge is not about to leave 
you?” 

“ Certainly not, j'our majesty,” answered Chiffiuch. “ Alice, my 
love— you mistake — that opposite door leads to your apartments.” 

“ Pardon me, madam,” answered Alice; “ I have indeed mis- 
taken my road, but it was wdien 1 came hither.” 

“ The errant damozel,” said Buckingham, looking at Charles with 
as much intelligence as etiquette permitted iiim to throw into his eye, 
and then turning it toward Alice, as she still held by Julian’s arm, 
“ is resolved not to mistake her load a second time. She has chosen 
a sufflcient guide.” 

“ And yet stories tell that such guides have led maidens astray,” 
laid the king. 

Alice blushed deeply, but instantly recovered her composure to 


FEVERIL OF THE TEAK. 


506 


•oon as she saw that her liberty was likely to depend upon the im- 
mediate exercise of resolution. She quitted, from a sense of Insulted 
delicacy, the arm of Julian, to which she had hitherto clung; but 
as she spoke, she continued to retain a slight grasp of his cloak. “ 1 
have indeed mistaken iny way,” she repeated' still addressing Mrs. 
Chiffinch, ” but it was when 1 crossed this threshold. The usage to 
which 1 have been exposed in your house has determined me to 
quit it instantly.” 

‘‘1 will not permit that, my young mistress,” answ'ered Mrs. 
Chiffinch, “ until your uncle, wffio placed you under my care, shall 
relieve me of the charge of you.” 

‘‘ 1 will answer for my conduct, both to my uncle, and, wdiat is 
of more importance, to my father,” said Alice. “You must permit 
me to depart, madam; 1 am free-Oom, and you have no right to de- 
tain me.” 

“Pardon me, my young madam,” said Mistress Chiffinch, “1 
have a right, and I will maintain it too.” 

“1 will know that before quitting this presence,” said Alice, 
firmly; and, advancing a step or tw'o, she dropped on her knee be- 
fore the king. “ Your majesty,” said she, “ it indeed 1 kneel before 
King Charles, is the father of your subjects.” 

“ Of a good mauv of them,” said the Duke of Buckingham, 
apart. 

“1 demand protection of you, in the name of God, aird of the 
oath your majesty swore wffien you placed on your head the crown 
of this kingdom!” 

“You have my protection, ” said the king, a little confused by an 
appeal so unexpected and so solemn. “Do but remain quiet with 
this lady, with whom your parents have placed you; neither Buck- 
ingham nor any one else shall intrude on you.” 

“ His majesty,” added Buckingham, in the same tone, and speak- 
ing from the restless and mischief-making spirit of contradiction, 
which he never could restrain, even w'hen indulging it was most 
contrary, not only to propriety, but to his own interest—” His maj- 
esty will protect you, fair lady, from all intrusion save what must 
not be termed such.” 

Alice darted a keen look on the duke, as if to read his meaning; 
another on Charles, to know whether she had guessed it rightly. 
There-was a guilty confession on the king’s brow, wdiich confirmed 
Alice’s determination to depart. “ Y^our majesty will forgive me,” 
she said ; “ it is not here that 1 can enjoy the advantage of your royal 
protection. I am resolved to leave tins house. If 1 am detained, 
ir must be by violence, which 1 trust no one dare offer to me in 
your majesty’s presence. This gentleman, whom 1 have long known, 
will conduct me to my friends.” 

“ We make but an iudiflerent figure in this scene, methinks,” 
said the king, addressing the Duke of Buckingham, and speaking 
in a wdiisper; “ but she must go. 1 neither will, nor dare, stop her 
from returning to her father.” 

“ And if she does,” swore the duke internally. “ I would, as Sir 
Andrew Smith saith, 1 might never touch fair lady’s hand.” And 
*tei)ping back he spoke a few words with Empsou the musician, 
who left the apartment for a few minutes, and pre^sently returned. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


306 

The king seemed irresolute concerning the part he should act under 
circumstances so peculiar. To be foiled in a gallant intrigue, was 
to subject himself to the ridicule of his gay court; to persist in it by 
any means w^hich approached to constraint, would have been tyran- 
nical; and, what perhaps he might judge as severe an imputation, it 
would have been unbecoming a gentleman. “ Upon my honor, . 
young lady,” he said, with an emphasis, ” you have nothing to tear 
in tliis house. But it is improper, for your own sake, that you should 
leave it in this abrupt manner. If you will have the goodness to 
wait but a quarter of an hour, Mistress Chiffinch’s coach will be 
placed at j'our command, to transport you where you will. Spare 
yourself the ridicule, and me the pain, of seeing you leave the house 
of one of my servants, as if you were escaping from a prison.” 

The king spoke in good-natured sincerity, and Alice was inclined 
for an instant to listen to his advice; but recollecting that she had 
to search for her father and uncle, or, failing them, for some suit- 
able place of secure residence, it rushed on her mind that the attend- 
ants of Mrs. Chifflnch were not likely to prove trusty guides or as- 
sistants in such a purpose. Finally and respectfully she an- 
nounced her purpose of instant departure. She needed no 
other escort, she said, than what this gentleman. Master Julian 
Peveril, who was well known to her father, would willingly afford 
her; nor did she need that further than until she had reached her 
father’s residence. 

‘‘Farewell, then, lady, a God’s name!” said the king; ‘‘lam 
sorry so much beauty should be wedded to so many shrewish sus- 
picions. For you. Master Peveril, T should have thought you had 
enough to do With your own affairs without interfering with the 
humors of the fair sex. The duty of conducting all strayed damsels 
into the right path, is, as matters go in this good city, rather too 
weighty an undertaking tor your youth and inexperience.” 

Julian, eager to conduct Alice safe from a place of which he be- 
gan fully to appreciate the perils, answered nothing to this taunt, 
but, bowing reverently, led her from the apartment. Her sudden 
appearance, and the animated scene which followed, had entirely 
absorbed, lor the moment, the recollection of his father, and of the 
Countess of Derby; and while the dumb attendant of the latter re- 
mained in the room, a silent, and, as it were, stunned spectator of 
all that had happened, Peveril had become, in the predominating in- 
terest of Alice’s critical situation, totally forgetful of her presence. 
But no sooner had he left the room, without noticing or attending 
to her, than Fenella, starting as from a trance, drew herself up, and 
looked wildly around, like one waking from a dream, as if to assure 
herself that her companion was gone, and gone without paying the 
slightest attention to her. She folded her hands together, and cast 
her eyes upward, with an expression of such agony as explained to 
Charles (as he thought) what painful ideas were passing in her mind. 

“ This Peveril is a perfect pattern of successful perfidy,” said the 
king; ‘‘ he has not only succeeded at first sight in carrying off this 
queen of the Amazons, but he has left us, 1 think, a disconsolate 
Ariadne in her place. But weep not, my princess of pretty move- 
ments,” he said,, addressing himself to Fenella; ‘‘ if we cannot call 
In Bacchus to console you, we will commit you to the care of Emp- 


PEVEIIIL OF THE PEAK. 307 

•on, who shall drink with Liber Pater for a thousand pounds, and I 
will say done first.” 

As the king spoke these words, Fenclla rushed past him with her 
wonted rapidity of step, and, with much less courtesy than was due 
to the royal presence, hurried down-stairs, and out of the house, 
without attempting to open any communication with the monarch, 
fie saw her abrupt departure with more surprise than displeasure; 
and present!}^ afterward, bursting into a fit of laughter, he said to 
the duke, ” Odds-fish, George, this young spark might teach the best 
of us how to manage the wrenches. 1 have had my own experience, 
but 1 could never yet contrive either to win or lose them with so lit- 
tle ceremony. ’ ’ 

“ Experience, sir,” replied the duke, ” cannot be acquired with- 
out years.” 

” True, George; and you would, 1 suppose, insinuate,” said 
Charles, ‘‘ that the gallant who acquires it, loses as much in 3 muth 
as he gains in art? 1 defy your insinuation, George. You cannot 
overreach your master, old as you think him, either in love or poli- 
tics. lou have not the secret plumer la poule sans lafaire crier, wit- 
ness til’s morning’s work. 1 will give j^ou odds at all games— -ay, 
and at the Mall, too, if thou darest accept my challenge. Chiffincli, 
what for dost thou convulse thy prett}'^ throat and face with sobbing 
and hatching tears which seem rather unwilling to make their ap- 
pearance?” 

‘‘It is for fear,” whined Chiffinch, ‘‘that your majesty should 
think— that j^ou should expect — ” 

‘‘ That 1 should expect gratitude from a courtier, or faith from a 
woman!” answered the king, patting her at the same time under 
the chin to make her raise her face. ‘‘ Tush! chicken, 1 am not so 
superfluous.” 

‘‘ There it is now,” said Chifflnch, continuing to sob the more bit- 
terly, as she felt herself unable to produce any tears ; ‘‘Isee your 
majesty is determined to lay all the blame on me, when 1 am inno- 
cent as an unborn babe — 1 will be judged by his grace.” 

‘‘ Ko doubt, no doubt, Chiffle,” said the king. ‘‘ His grace and 
you will be excellent judges in each other’s cause, and as good wit- 
nesses in each other’s favor. But to investigate the matter impar- 
tially, we must examine our evidence apart. My lord duke, we 
meet at the Mall at noon, if your grace dare accept my challenge.” 

Ills Grace of Buckingham bowled, and retired. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

But when the bully with assuming: pace, 

Codes his broad hat, edged round with tarnish’d lace, 

Yield not tlie way— defy his strutting pride, 

And thrust him to the muddy kennel’s side, 

Yet rather bear the shower and toils of mud. 

Than in the doubtful quarrel risk thy blood. 

Gay’s Trivia. 

Julian Peveril, half leading, half supporting Alice Bridgenorth, 
had reached the middle of Saint James’s Street ere the doubt oc- 
curred to him which way they should bend their course. He then 


308 


PEYEEIL OP THE VEJlK, 


asked Alice whither he should conduct her, and learned, to his fur- 
prise and embarrassment, that, far from knowing where her father 
was to be found, she had no certain knowledge that he was in Lon- 
don, and only hoped that he had arrrived, from the expressions 
which he had used at parting. She mentioned her Uncle Chiistian’s 
address, but it was with doubt and hesitation, arising from the 
hands in which he had already placed her; and her reluctance to go 
again under his protection was strongly confirmed by her youthful 
guide, when a lew words had established to his conviction the iden- 
tity of Ganlesse and Christian. What then was to be done? 

“Alice," said Julian, alter a moment’s reflection, “you must 
seek your earliest and best friend — 1 mean my mother. She has now 
no castle in which to receive you — she has but a miserable lodging 
so near the jail in which my father is confined, that it seems almost 
a cell of the same prison. 1 have not seen her since my coming 
hither; but thus much have 1 learned by inquiry. We will now go 
to her apartment; such as it is, 1 know she will share it with one so 
innocent and so unprotected as you are." 

“Gracious Heaven!" said the poor girl, “am 1 then so totally 
deserted, that 1 must throw myself on the mercy of her who, of all 
the world, has most reason to spurn me from her? Julian, can you 
advise me to this? Is there none else who will afford me a few 
hours’ refuge, till 1 can hear from my father? No othei protectress 
but her whose ruin has, I fear, been accelerated by— Jidian, 1 dare 
not appear before your mother! she must hate me for my family, 
and despise me for my meanness. To be a second time cast on her 
protection, when the first has been so evil repaid— Julian, 1 dare not 
go with you." 

“ She has never ceased to love you, Alice," said her conductor, 
whose steps she continued to attend, even while declaring her reso- 
lution not to go with him, “ she never felt any thing but kindness 
toward you, nay, toward your father; for though his dealings with 
us have been harsh, she can allow much for the provocation which 
he has received. Believe me, with her you will be safe as with a 
mother — perhaps may be the means of reconciling the divisions by 
which we have sufiered so much." 

“ Might God grant it!" said Alice. “Yet how shall 1 face your 
mother! And will she be able to protect me against these powerful 
men — against my Uncle Christian? Alas, that 1 must call him my 
worst enemy?" 

“ She has the ascendency which honor hath over infamy, and vir- 
tue over vice," said Julian; “and to no human power but your 
father's will she resign you, it you consent to choose her for your 
protectress. Come, then, with me, Alice; and — " 

Julian was int(!rrupted by some one, who, laying an unceremoni- 
ous hold of his cloak, puUed it with so much force as compelled 
him to stop and lay his hand on his sword. He turned at the same 
time, and, when he turned, beheld Fenella. The cheek ot the mute 
glowed like fire; her eyes sparkled, and her lips were forcibly drawn 
together, as if she had difficulty to repress those wild screams which 
usually attended her agonies of passion, and which, uttered in the 
open street, must instantly have collected a crowd. As it was, her 
jippeivrance was so singular and her emotion so evident, that men 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


809 

gft£ed fts they came on, and looked back alter they had passed, at 
the singular vivacity of her gestures; while, holding Peveril’s cloak, 
with one hand, she made, with the other, the most eager and imper- 
ious signs that he should leave Alice Bridgenorth and follow her. 
She touched the plume in her bonnet, to remind him of the earl — 
pointed to her heart, to intimate the Qountess — raised her closed 
hand, as if to command him in their name— and next moment folded 
both, as if to supplicate him in her own ; while, pointing to Alice 
with an expression at once of angry and scornful derision, she 
waved her hand repeatedly and disdainfully, to intimate that 
Peveril ought to cast her off as something undeserving his protec- 
tion. 

Frightened, she knew not why, at these wild gestures, Alice 
clung closer to Julian’s arm than she had at first dared to do; and 
this mark of confidence in his protection seemed to increase the i^as- 
sion of Fenella. 

Julian was dreadfully embarrassed; his situation was suSiciently 
precarious, even before Penella’s ungovernable passions threatened 
to ruin the only plan which he had been able to suggest. What she 
wanted with him — how tar the fate of the earl and countess might 
depend on his following her, he could not even conjecture; but be 
the call how peremptory soever, he resolved not to comply with it 
until he had seen Alice placed in safety. In the meantime, he de- 
termined not to lose sight of Fenella; and disregarding her repeated, 
disdainful, and impetuous rejection of the hand which he offered 
her, he at length seemed so fiir to have soothed her, that she seized 
upon his right arm, and, as if despairing of his following her path, 
appeared reconciled to attend him on that which he himself should 
choose. 

Thus, with a youthful female clinging to each arm, and both re- 
markably calculated to attract the public eye, though from very 
different reasons, Julian resolved to make the shortest road to the 
waterside, and there to take boat for Blackfriars, as the nearest point 
of landing to New^gate, where he concluded that Lance had already 
announced his arrival in London to Sir Geoffrey, then inhabiting 
that dismal region, and to his lady, who, so far as the jailer’s rigor 
permitted, shared and softened his imprisonment. 

Julian’s embarrassment in passing Charing Cross and Korthum- 
berland House was so great as to excite the attention of the passen- 
gers; for he had to compose his steps so as to moderate the unequal 
and rapid pace of Fenella to the timid and faint progress of his left- 
hand companion; and while it would have been needless to address 
himself to the former, who could not comprehend him, he dared 
not speak himself to Alice, for fear of awakening into frenzy the 
jealousy, or least the impatience of Fenella. 

Many passengers looked at them with wonder, and some with smiles; 
but Julian remarked that there were two who never lost sight of 
them, and to whom his situation, and the demeanor of his compan- 
ions, seemed to afford matter of undisguised meiTiment. These 
were young men, such as may be seen in the same precincts In the 
present day, allowing for the difference in the fashion of their ap- 
parel. They abounded in periwig, and fluttered with many hundred 
yards of ribbon, disposed in bow-knots upon their sleeves, their 


310 


PEVEETL OP THE PEAK, 


breeches, and their waistcoats, in the very extremity of the existing 
mode. A quantity of lace and embroidery made their habits rather 
"fine than tasteful. In a word, they were dressed in that caricature of 
the fashion, which sometimes denotes a harebrained man of quality 
who has a mind to be distinguished as a top of the first order, but is 
much more frequently the disguise of those who desire to be esteemed 
men of rank on account of their dress, having no other pretension 
to the distinction. 

These two gallants passed Peveril more than once, linked arm in 
arm, then sauntered, so as to oblige him to pass them in turn, laugh- 
ing and whispering during these maneuvers — staring broadly at 
Peveril and his female companions — and affording them, as they 
came into contact, none of those facilities of giving place which are 
required on such occasions by the ordinary rules of the pave. 

Peveril did not immediately observe their impertinence; but when 
it was too gross to escape his'noticc, his gall began to arise; and, in 
addition to all the other embarrassments of his situation, he had to 
combat the longing desire which he felt to cudgel handsomely the 
two coxcombs who seemed thus determined on insulting him. 
Patience and sufferance were indeed strongly imposed on him by cir- 
cumstances; but at length it became scarcel}^ possible to observe" their 
dictates any longer. 

When, for the third time, Julian found himself obliged, with his 
companions, to pass this troublesome brace of fops, the}’’ kept walk- 
ing close behind him, speaking so loud as to be heard, and in a tone 
of perfect indifference whether he listened to them or not. 

“ This is bumpkin’s best luck,” saidthe taller of the two (who was 
indeed a man of remarkable size, alluding to the plainness of 
Peveril’s dress, which was scarce fit for the streets of London). 
‘‘ Two such fine wenches, and under guard of a gray frock and an 
oaken riding-rod!” 

“Nay, Puritan’s luck rather, and more than enough of it,” said 
his companion. “You may read Puritan in his pace and in his pa- 
tience.” 

“ Right as a pint bumper, Tom,” said his friend. “ Issachar is 
an ass that stoopeth between two burdens,” 

“ I have a mind to ease long-eared Laurence of one of his incum- 
brances,” said the shorter fellow. “ That black-eyed sparkler looks 
as it she had a mind to run away from him.” 

“ Ay,” answered the taller, “ and the blue-eyed trembler looks as 
if she would tall behind into my loving arms.” 

At these words, Alice, holding still closer by PeveriTs arm than 
formerly, mended her pace almost to running, in order to escape from 
men wliose language was so alarming; and Fenella walked hastily 
forward in the same manner, having perhaps caught, from the men’s 
gestures and demeanor, that apprehension which Alice had taken 
from their language. 

Fearful of the consequences of a fray in the streets, which must 
necessarily separate him from these unprotected females, Peveril en- 
deavored to compound betwixt the prudence necessary for their pro- 
tection and his own rising resentment; and as this troublesome pair 
of attendants endeavored again to pass them close to Hungerford 
Stairs, he said to them with constrained calmness, “ Gentlemen, I 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


311 

owe jou something for the attention you have bestowed on the 
affairs of a stranger. If you have any pretension to the name 1 havu 
given you, you will tell me where you are to be found.” 

‘‘ And with what purpose,” said the taller of the two, sneeringly, 
” does your most rustic gravity, or 3 'our most grave rusticity re- 
quire of us such information?” 

So saying, they both faced about, in such a manner as to make it 
impossible for Julian to advance any further. 

” Make for the stairs, Alice,” he said; ” 1 will be with you in an 
instant.” Then freeing himself with difficulty from the grasp of 
his companions, he cast his cloak hastily round his left arm, and 
said, sternly to his opponents, ‘‘ Will you give me your names, sirs; 
or will 3 "ou be pleased to make way?” 

” No till we know for whom we are to give place?” said one of 
them. 

” For one who will else teach you what you want — good man- 
ners,” said Peveril, and advanced, as if to push between them. 

They separated, but one of them stretched forth his foot before 
Peveril, as if he meant to trip him. The blood of his ancestors was 
already boiling within him; he struck the man on the face with the 
oaKcn rod which he had just sneered at, and, throwing it from him, 
instantly unsheathed his sw^ord. Both the others drew, and pushed 
at once; but he caught the point of one rapier in his cloak, and par- 
ried the other thrust with his own weapon. He might have been less 
lucky in the second close, but a cry arose among the watermen, of 
“ Shame, shame, two upon one!” 

” They are men of the Duke of Buckingham’s,” said one fellow 
— ” there’s no safe meddling with them.” 

“They may be the devil’s men, if they will,” said an ancient 
Triton, flourishing his stretcher; ” but 1 say fair play, an I old Eng- 
land forever; and, 1 say, knock the gold-laced puppies down, unless 
they will fight turn-about with gray jerkin, liKe honest fellows. One 
down — t’other come on.” 

The low orders of London have in all times been remarkable for 
the delight which they have taken in club-law, or fist-law; and for 
the equity and impartiality with which they see it administered. 
The noble science of defense was then so generally known, that a 
bout at single rapier excited at that time as much interest and as lit- 
tle wonder as a boxing- match in our own days. The bystanders, 
experienced in such affrays, presently formed a ring, within which 
Peveril and the taller and more forward of his antagonists were 
soon engaged in close combat with their swords, whilst the other, 
overawed oy the spectators, was prevented from interfering. 

“Well done the tall fellow!” “Well thrust, long-legs!” 
“ Huzza for two ells and a quarter!” were the sounds with which 
the fray was at first cheered; for Peveril’s opponent not only showed 
great activity and skill in fence, but had also a decided advantage, 
from the anxiety with which Julian looked out for Alice Bridge- 
north; the care for whose safety diverted him in the beginning of 
the onset from that which he ought to have exclusively bestowed on 
the defense of his own life. A slight flesh-wound in the side at once 
punished, and warned him, of his inadvertence; when, turning his 
whole thoughts on the business in which he was engaged, and 


?BVERIL OF TUB PBi^K. 


zn 

ftnimated with anger against his impertinent intruder, the renconter 
•peedily began to assume another face, amidst cries of “ Well done, 
gray jerkin!” “Try the metal of his gold doublet!” “Finely 
thrust!” “ Curiously parri(K? !” “There went another eyelet-hole 
to his broidered jerkin!” “ Fairly pinked, by G— d!” In fact, the 
last exclamation was uttered amid a general roar of applause, ac- 
companying a successful and conclusive lunge, by which Peveril 
ran his gigantic antagonist through the body. He looked at his 
prostrate foe for a moment; then, recovering himself, called loudly 
to know what had become of the lady. 

“ Never mind the lady, if you be wise,” said one of the watermen; 
“ the constable will be here in an instant. I’ll give your honor a 
cast across the water in a moment. It may be as much as your 
neck’s worth. Shall only charge a Jacobus.” 

“You be d — d!” said one of his rivals in profession, “ as your 
father was before you; for a Jacobus, I’ll set the gentleman into 
Alsatia, where neither bailiff nor constable dare trespass.” 

“ The lady, you scoundrels, the lady!” exclaimed Peveril. 
“ Where is the lady?” 

“ I’ll carry your honor where you shall have enough of ladies, if 
that be your want,” said the old Triton; and as he spoke, the clamor 
amongst the watermen was renewed, each hoping to cut his own 
proht out of the emergency of Julian’s situation. 

“ A sculler will be least suspected, your honor,” said one fellow. 

“ A pair of oars will carry you through the water like a wild- 
duck,” said another. 

“ But you have got never a tilt, brother,” said a third. “ Now 
1 can put the gentleman as snug as if he were under hatches.” 

In the midst of the oaths and clamor attending this aquatic con- 
troversy for his custom, Peveril at length made them understand 
that he would bestow a Jacobus, not on him whose boat was first 
oars, but on whomsoever should inform him of the fate of the lady. 

“Of which lady?” said a sharp fellow; “for, to my thought, 
there was a pair on them.” 

“ Of both, of both,’' answered Peveril; “but first, of the fair- 
haired lady?” 

“ Ay, ay, that was she that shrieked so when gold-jacket’s com- 
panion handed her into No. 20.” 

“ Who — what— who dared to hand her?” exclaimed Peveril. 

“ Nay, master, you have heard enough of my tale without a fee,” 
said the waterman. 

“Sordid rascal!” said Peveril,- giving him a gold piece, “speak 
out, or I’ll run my sword through you!” 

“For the matter of that, master,” answered the fellow, “not 
while I can handle this trunnion— but a bargain’s a bargain; and so 
I’ll tell 5mu, for your gold piece,* that the comrade of the fellow 
forced one of your wenches, her with the fair hair, will shenill she, 
into Tickling Tom’s wherry; and they are far enough up Thames by 
this time, with wind and tide.” 

“ Sacred Heaven, and 1 stand here!” exclaimed Julian. 

“ Why, that is because your honor will not take a boat.” 

“You are right, my friend— a boat— a boat instantly I” 


PITERIL OE THE PEJiE 


3ia 

“ Follow me, then, squire. Here, Tom, bear a hand— the gentle- 
man ie our fare.” 

A volley of water language was exchanged betwixt the successful 
candidate for Peveril’s custom and his disappointed brethren, which 
concluded by the ancient Triton’s bellowing out, in a tone above 
them all, “ that the gentleman was in a fair way to make a voyage 
to the isle of gulls, for that sly Jack was only bantering him — No. 
£0 had rowed for York buildings' ” 

“ To the isle of gallows,” cried another; ” for here comes one who 
will mar his trip up Thames and carry him down to Execution 
Dock.” 

In fact, as he spoke the word, a constable, with three or four of 
his assistants, armed with the old-fashioned brown bills, which were 
still used for arming those guardians of the peace, cut off our hero’s 
further progress to the water’s edge, by arresting him in the king's, 
name. To attempt resistance wmuld have been madness, as he w^as 
surrounded on all sides; so Peveril was disarmed, and carried before 
the nearest justice of the peace, for examination and committal. 

The legal sage before whom Julian Avas taken, was a man very 
honest in his intentions, very bounded in liis talents, and rather timid 
in his disposition. Before the general alarm given to England, and 
to the city of London in particular, by the notable discovery of the 
Popish Plot, Master Maulstatute had taken serene and undisturbed 
pride and pleasure in the discharge of his duties as a justice of the 
peace, with the exercise of all its honorary privileges and awful 
authority. But the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey had made 
a strong, nay, an indelible impression on his mind; and he walked 
the Courts of Themis with fear and trembling after that memorable 
and melancholy event. 

Having a high idea of his official importance, and rather an exalted 
notion of his personal consequence, his honor saw nothing from tliat 
time but cords and daggers before his eyes, and never stepped out 
of his owQ house, which he fortified, and iff some measure garri- 
soned, witli half a dozen tall watchmen and constables, without see- 
ing himself watched by a Papist in disguise, with a drawn sword 
under his cloak. It was even whispered, that, in the agonies of his 
fears, the worshipful Master Maulstatutemistook the kitchen- wench 
with a tinder-box, for a Jesuit with a pistol; but it any one dared to 
laugh at such an error, he would have done well to conceal his 
mirth, lest he fell under the heavy inculpation of being a banterer 
and a stifler of the Plot— a crime almost as deep as that of being 
liimself a plotter. In fact, the fears of the honest justice, however 
ridiculously exorbitant, were kept so much in countenance by the 
outcry of the day, and the general nervous fever, which afflicted 
ever}’’ good Protestant, that IVI aster Maulstatute was accounted the 
bolder man and the better magistrate, while, under the terror of the 
air-drawn dagger which fancy placed continually before his eyes, he 
continued to dole forth justice in Wie recesses of his private cham- 
ber, nay, occasionally to attend quarter-sessions, when the hall was 
guarded by a sufficient body of the militia. Such was the wight, at 
whose door, well chained and doubly bolted, the constable who had ' 
Julian in custody now gave his important and well-known knock. 

Notwitlm landing this official signal, the party was not admitted . 


314 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

until the clerk, Avho acted the part of high-warder, had reconnoitered 
them through a grated wicket; for who could sny whether the 
Papists might not have made themselves master of Master Consta- 
ble's sign, and have prepared a pseudo watch to burst in and murder 
the justice, under pretense of bringing a criminal before him? Less 
hopeful projects had figured in the Narrative of the Popish Plot. 

All being found right, the key was turned, the bolts were drawn, 
the chain unhooked, so as to permit entrance to the constable, the 
prisoner, and the assistants; and the door was then as suddenly shut 
against the witnesses, who, as less trustworthy persons, w^ere re- 
quested (through the wicket) to remain in the yard, until they should 
be called in their respective turns. 

Had Julian been inclined for mirth, as was far from being the 
case, he must have smiled at the incongruity of the clerk’s apparel, 
who had belted over his black buckram suit a buff baldric, sustain- 
ing a broadsword, and a pair of huge horse-pistols; and, instead of 
the low flat hat, which, coming in place of the city cap, completed 
the dress of a scrivener, had placed on his greasy locks a rusted steel - 
cap, which had seen Marston Moor; across which projected his well- 
used quill, in the guise of a plume — the shape of the morion not ad- 
mitting of its being stuck, as usual, behind his ear. 

This whimsical figure conducted the constable, his assistants, and 
the prisoner, into the low hall, where his principal dealt forth justice; 
who presented an appearance still more singular than that of his de- 
pendent. 

Sundry good Protestants, who thought so highly of themselves as 
to suppose they were worthy lo be distinguished as objects of Cath- 
olic cruelty, had taken to defensive arms on the occasion. But it 
was quickly found that a breast-plate and back-plate of proof, fast- 
ened Together with iron clasps, was no convenient inclosure fora 
man who meant (o cat venison and custard; and that a bufl;-coat, or 
shirt of mail, was scarcely more accommodating to the exertions 
necessary on such actiVe occasions. Besides, there were other objec- 
tions, as the alarming and meuacing aspects which such warlike 
habiliments gave to the Exchange and other places, where merchants 
most do congregate; and excoriations were bitterly complained of 
by many, who, not belonging to the artillery company, or trained 
bands, had no experience in bearing defensive armor. 

To obviate these objections, and, at the same time, to secure the per- 
sons of all true Protestant citizens against open force or privy assas- 
sinations on the part of the Papists, some ingenious artist, belong- 
ing, we may presume, to the worshipful Mercers’ Company, had 
contrived a species of armor, of which neither the horse-ar-mory in 
the Tower, nor Gwynnap’s Gothic Hall, no, nor Dr. Meyrick’s in- 
valuable collection of ancient arms, has preserved any specimen. It 
was called silk-armor,* being composed of a doublet and breeches of 
quilted silk, so closely stitched, ^ and of such thickness, as to be 
proof against either bullet or steel* while a thick bonnet, of the same 
materials, with ear-flaps attached to it, and, on the vrhole, much re- 
sembling a night-cap, completed the eijuipment, and ascertained the 
security of the wearer from the head lo the knee. 


* See Note A A. Silk Arm^r, 


PETERIL OF THE PElK. 315 

Master Maulstatnte, among other worthy citizens, had adopted 
this singular panoply, which had the advantage of being soft, and 
warm, and flexible, as well as safe. And he now sat in his judicial 
elbow-chair — a short, rotund figure, hung round, as it were, with 
cushions, tor such was the appearance of the quilted garments; and 
with a nose protruded from under the silken casque, the size of 
which, together with the unwieldiness of the whole figure, gave his 
worship no indifferent resemblance to the sign ot the Hog in Armor, 
which was considerably improved by the defensive garment being of 
a dusky orange color, not altogether unlike the hue of those half- 
wild swine which are to be found in the forests of Hampshire. 

Secure in these invulnerable envelopments, his worship had rested 
content, although severed from his own death-doing weapons, or 
rapier, poniard, and pistols, which were placed, nevertheless, at no 
great distance from his chair. One offensive implement, indeed, he 
thought it prudent to keep on the table beside his huge Coke upon 
Lyttleton. This was a sort of pocket- flail, consisting of a piece of 
strong ash, about eighteen inches long, to which was attached a 
swinging club of lignum vitm, nearly twice as long as the handle, but 
jointed so as to be easily folded up. This instrument, which bore 
at that time the singular name of the Protestant flail, might be con- 
cealed under the coat, until circumstances demanded its public ap- 
pearance. A better precaution against surprise than his arms, 
whether offensive or defensive, was a strong iron grating, which, 
crossing the room in front of the justice’s table, and communicating 
by a grated door, which was usually Kept locked, effectually sepa- 
rated the accused party from his judge. 

Justice Maulstatute, such as we have described him, chose to hear 
the accusation of the witnesses before calling on Peveril for his de- 
fense. The detail of the affray was briefly given by the by-standers, 
and seemed deeply to touch the spirit of the examinator. He shook 
his silken casque emphatically, when he understood that, after some 
language betwixt the parties, which the witnesses did not quite 
unclerstand, the young man in custody struck the first blow, and 
drew his sword before the wounded party had unsheathed his 
weapon. Again he shook his crested head yet more solemnly, when 
the result of the conflict was known ; and yet again, when one ot the 
witnesses declared, that, to the best of his knowledge, the sufferer 
in the fray was a gentleman belonging to the household ot his Grace 
the Duke of Buckingham. 

“ A won by peer,” quoth the armed magistrate — “ a true Protest- 
ant, and a friend to his country. Mercy on us, to what a height of 
audacity hath this age arisen! We see well, and could, were we as 
blind as a mole, out of what quiver this shaft hath been drawn.” 

He then put on his spectacles, and having desired Julian to be 
brought forward, he glared upoi^ him atvfully with those glazen 
eyes, from under the shade of his quilted turban. 

“So young,” he said, “and so hardened— lack-a-day! — and a 
Papist, i’ll warrant.” 

Peveril had time enough to recollect the necessity of bis being at 
large, if he could possibly obtain bis freedom, and interposed here a 
civil contradiction of his worship’s gracious supposition. “ He was 


316 PETERIL Off THE PEAK. 

no Catholic,’' he said, “ but an unworthy merober of the Church of 
England.” 

‘‘ Perhaps but a lukewarm Protestant, notwithstanding,” said the 
sage justice; ” there are those amongst us who ride tantivy to Rome, 
and have already made out halt the journey—aheml” 

Peveril disowned his being any such. 

” And who art thou, then?” said the justice; ” for, friend, to tell 
you plainly, 1 like not your visage— ahem!” 

These short and emphatic coughs were accompanied each by a 
succinct nod, intimating the perfect conviction of the speaker that 
he had made the best, the wisest, and the most acute observation, 
of which the premises admitted. 

Julian, irritated by the whole circumstances of his detention, an- 
swered the justice’s interrogation in rather a lofty tone. ” My name 
is Julian Peveril.” 

“Now, Heaven be around us!” said the terrified justice — ‘‘the 
son of that black-hearted Papist and traitor. Sir Geoffrey Peveril, 
now in hands, and on the verge of trial!” 

” How, sir!” exclaimed Julian, forgetting his situation, and, step- 
ping forward to the grating, with a violence which made the bars 
clatter, he so startled the appalled justice, that, snatching his Protest- 
ant flail, Master Maulstatute aimed a blow at his prisoner, to 
repel what he apprehended was a premeditated attack. But 
whether it was owing to the justice’s hurry of mind, or inexperience 
in managing the weapon, he’ not only missed his aim, but brought 
the swinging part of the machine round his own skull with such a 
severe counter-buff, as completely to try the efficacy of his cushioned 
helmet, and in spite of its defense, to convey a stunning sensation, 
which he rather hastily imputed to the consequences of a' blow re- 
ceived from Peveril. 

His assistants did not directly confirm the opinion which the jus- 
tice had so unwarrantably adopted; but all with one voice agreed, 
that, but for their own active and instantaneous interference, there 
was no knowing what mischief might have been done by a person 
so dangerous as the prisoner. The general opinion that he meant to 
proceed in the matter of his own rescue, par roiedufait, was indeed 
so deeply impressed on all present, that Julian saw it would be in 
vain to offer any defense, especially being but too conscious that the 
alarming, and probably the fatal consequences of his renconter with 
the bully, rendered his commitment inevitable. He contented him- 
self with asking into what prison he was to be thrown; and when the 
formidable word Newgate was returned as full answer, he had at least 
the satisfaction to reflect that, stern and dangerous as was the shel- 
ter of that root, he should at least enjoy it in company with his 
father; and that, by some means or other, they might perhaps obtain 
the satisfaction of a melancholy meeting, under the circumstances 
of mutual calamity, which seemed impending over their house. 

Assuming the virtue ot more patience than he actually possessed, 
Julian gave the magistrate (to whom all the mildness of his demeanor 
could not, however, reconcile him) the direction to the house where 
he lodged, together with a request that his servant, Lance Outram, 
might be permitted to send him his money and wearing apparel; 
adding, that aJl which might be in his possession, either of arme or 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


817 

writings — the former amounting to a pair of traveling pistols, and 
the last to a few memoianda of little consequence, he willingly con- 
sented to place at the disposal of the magistrate. It was in that 
moment that he entertained, with sincere satisfaction, the comfort- 
ing reflection, that the important papers of Lady Derby were already 
in the possession of the sovereign. 

The justice promised attention to his requests; but reminded him, 
with great dignity, that his present complacent and submissive be- 
havior ought, for his own sake, to have been adopted from fhe be- 
ginning, instead of disturbing the presence of magistracy with such 
atrocious marks of the malignant, rebellious, and murderous spirit 
of Popery, as he had at first exhibited. “Yet,” he said, “as he 
was a goodly young man, and of honorable quality, he would not 
suffer him to be dragged through the streets as a felon, but had 
ordered a coach for his accommodation.” 

His honor, Master Maulstatute, uttered the word “ coach ” with 
the importance of one who, as Dr. Johnson saith of later date, is 
conscious of the dignity of putting horses to his chariot. The wor- 
shipful Master Maulstatute did not, however, on this occasion, do 
Julian the honor of yoking to his huge family caroche the two 
“ frampal jades ” (to use the term of the period) which were wont 
to drag that ark lo the meeting-house of pure and precious Master 
Howlaglass on a Thursday evening for lecture, and on a Sunday 
for a four-hours’ sermon. He had recourse to a leathern convenience, 
then more rare, but just introduced, with every prospect of the great 
facility which has since been afforded by hackney coaches, to all 
manner of communication honest and dishonest, legal and illegal. 
Our friend Julian, hitherto much more accustomed to the saddle 
than to any other conveyance, soon found himself in a hackney 
carriage, with the constable and two assistants for his companions, 
armed up to the teeth — the port of destination being, as they had 
already intimated, the ancient fortress of Newgate. 


CHAPTER XXXlll. 

’TIs th© black ban-dog of our jail— Pray look on him, 

But at a wary distance— rouse him not— 

He bays not till he worries. 

The Black Dog of Newgate. 

I'HE coach stopped before those tremendous gates which resemble 
those of Tartarus, save only that they rather more frequently permit 
safe and honorable egress; although at the price of the same anxiety 
and labor with which Hercules, and one or two of the demigods, 
extricated themselves from the hell of the ancient mythology, and 
sometimes, it is said, bv the assistance of the golden boughs. 

Julian stepped out of the vehicle, carefully supported on either 
side by his companions, and also by one or two turnkeys, whom the 
first summons of the deep bell at the gate had called to their assist- 
ance. That attention, it may be guessed, was not bestowed lest he 
should make a false step, so miieh as for fear of his attempting an 
escape, of which he had no intentions, A few prentices and strag- 
gling boya of the neighboring market, which derived considerabl# 


318 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


advantage from increase of custom, in consequence of the numerous 
committals on account of the Popi^i Plot, and who therefore were 
zealous Protestants, saluted him on his descent with jubilee shouts 
of “ Whoop, Papist! whoop, Papist! D — n to the Pope, and all his 
adherents!'’ 

Under such auspices, Peveril was ushered in beneath that gloomy 
gateway, where so many bid adieu on their entrance at once to honor 
and to life. The dark and dismal arch under wdnch he soon found 
himself, opened upon a large court-yard, where a number of debtors 
were employed in playing at hand-ball, pitch-and-toss, hustle-cap, 
and other games ; for which relaxations the rigor of their creditors 
afforded them full leisure, while it debarred them tbe means of pur- 
suing the honest labor by 'which they might have redeemed their 
affairs, and maintained their starving and beggared families. 

But with this careless and desperate group Julian was not to be 
numbered, being led, or rather forced, by his conductors, into a low 
arched door, which, carefully secured by bolts and bars, opened for 
his reception on one side of the archway, and closed with all its 
fastenings, the moment after his hasty entrance. He was then con- 
ducted along two or three gloomy passages, which, where they 
intersected each other, were guarded by as many strong wickets, one 
of iron gates, and the others of stout oak, clinched with plates, and 
studded with nails of the same metal. He 'was not allowed to pause 
until he found himself hurried into a little round vaulted room, 
which several of tnese passages opened into, and which seemed, 
with respect to the labyrinth through part ot which he had passed, 
to resemble the central point of a spider’s web, in which the main 
lines of that reptile’s curious maze are always found to terminate. 

The resemblance did not end here; for in this small vaulted apart- 
ment, the walls of which were hung round with musketoons, pis- 
tols, cutlasses, and other weapons, as well as with many sets of fet- 
ters and irons of different construction, ail disposed in great order, 
and ready for employment, a person sat, who might not unaptly be 
compared toA huge bloated and bottled spider, placed there to se- 
cure the prey which had fallen into his toils. 

This official had originally been a very sti’ong and square-built 
man, of large size, but was now so overgrown, from over-feeding, 
perhaps, and want of exercise, as to bear the same resemblance t o 
his former self which a stall-fed ox still retains to a wild bull. The 
look ot no man is so inauspicious as a fat man, upon whose features 
ill-nature has marked an habitual stamp. He seems to have re- 
versed the old proverb of “ laugh and be fat,” and to have thriven 
under the influence of the worst affections of the mind. Passionate 
we can allow a jolly mortal to be; but it seems unnatural to his 
goodly case to be sulky and brutal. ISow this man’s features, surly 
and tallow-colored; his limbs, swelled and disproporlioned; his 
huge paunch and unwieldy carcass, suggested the idea, that, having 
once found his way into this central recess, he had there battened, 
like the weasel in the fable, and fed largely and foully, until he had 
become incapable of retreating through any of the narroAv paths that 
terminated at his cell; and was thus compelled to remain, like a 
toad under the cold stone, fattening amid the squalid airs of th® 
dungeons by which he was surrounded, which would have proved 


PEVERIJ. OF* THE PEAK. 


319 

pestiferous to any other than such a congenial inhabitant. Huge 
iron-clasped books lay before this ominous specimen of pinguitude 
—the records of the realm of misery, in which office he officiated as 
prime minister; and had Peveril come thither as an unconcerned 
visitor, his heart would have sunk within him at considering the 
mass of human wretchedness which must needs be registered in these 
fatal volumes. But his own distresses sat too heavy on his mind to 
permit any general reflections of this nature. 

The constable and this bulky official whispered together, after Ihe 
former had delivered to the latter the warrant of Julian’s commit- 
ment. The word ichisperecl is not quite accurate, for their com- 
munication was carried on less by words than by looks and expres- 
sive signs; by which, in all such situations, men learn to supply the 
use of language, and to add mystery to what is in itself sufficient!}'’ 
terrible to the captive. The only words which could be heard were 
t'oose of the warden, or, as he was called then, the Captain of the 
Jail, “ Another biid to the cage?” 

” Who will whistle ‘ Pretty Pope of Rome,’ with any starling in 
your knight’s ward,” answered the constable, with a facetious air, 
checked, however, by the due respect to the superior presence in 
which he stood. 

Tlie Grim Feature relaxed into something like a smile as he heard 
the officer’s observation; but instantly composing himself into the 
stern solemnity which for an instant had been disturbed, he looked 
fiercely at his new guest, and pronounced with an awful and em- 
pl\,atic, yet rather an under-voice, the single and impressive word, 
” Garninh!” 

Julian Peveril replied with assumed composure; for he had heard 
of the customs of such places, and was resolved to comply with 
them, so as if possible to obtain the favor of seeing his father, which 
he shrewdly guessed must depend on his gratifying the avarice of 
the keeper. ” 1 am quite ready,” he said, ” to accede to the cus- 
toms of the place in wdiich 1 unhappily find myself. You have but 
to name your demands, and 1 will satisfy them.” 

So saying, he drew out his purse, thinking himself at the same 
time fortunate that he had retained about him a considerable sum of 
gold. The captain remarked its width, depth, its extension, and de- 
pression, with an involuntary smile, which had scarce contorted his 
hanging under-lip, and the wiry and greasy mustache which thatched 
the upper, wdien it was checked by the recollection that there were 
regulations which set bounds to his rapacity, and prevented him 
from pouncing on his prey like a kite, and ‘swooping it all oil at 
once. 

This chilling reflection produced the following sullen reply to 
Peveril; — “There were sundry rates. Gentlemen must choose for 
themselves. lie asked nothing but his fees. But civility,” he mut- 
tered, ‘ must be paid for.” 

“ And shall, if lean have it for payment,” said Peveril; “but 
the price, my good sir, the price?” 

lie spoke with some degree of scorn, wdiich he was the less anx- 
ious to repress, that he saw, even in this jail, his purse gave him an 
indirect but powerful influence over his jailer. 

The captain seemed to feel the same, for, as he spoke, he plucked 


PEVEKIL Ob' THE PEAK. 


320 

from his head, almost involuntarily, a sort of scalded fur-cap, which 
served it tor covering. But his fingers revolting trom so unusual 
an act of complaisance, began to indemnify tliemselves by scratch- 
ing his grisly shock-head, as he muttered,* in a tone resembling the 
softened growling of a mastiff ^vllen he has ceas(id to bay the in- 
truder who shows no fear ot him — “ There are different rates. There 
is the Little Ease, for common tees of the crown— rather dark, and 
the common-sewer runs below it; and some gentlemen object to the 
company, who are chiefly paddeis and michers. Then the master’s 
side— the garnish came to one piece — and none lay stowed there but 
who were in for murder at the least.” 

“ Name your highest price, sir, and take it,” was Julian’s concise 
reply. 

“ Three pieces for the knight’s ward,” answered the governor of 
this terrestrial Tartarus. 

” Take five, and place me with Sir Geoffrey,” was again Julian’s 
answer, throwing down the money upon the desk before him. 

” Sir Geoffrey? Hum! — ay. Sir Geoffrey,” said the jailer, as if 
meditating what he ought to do. “ Well, many a man has paid 
money to see Sir Geoffrey— Scarce so much as you have, though. 
But then you are like to see the last on him. Ha, ha, hal” 

These broken muttered exclamations, which terminated some- 
what like the joyous growl of a tiger over his meal, Julian could not 
comprehend; and only replied to by repeating his request to be 
placed in the same cell with Sir Geoffrey, 

” Ay, master,” said the jailer, ” never fear; I’ll keep word with 
you, as you seem to know something ot what belongs to your sta- 
tion and mine. And hark ye, Jem Clink will fetch you the 
darbies.” 

‘‘ Derby!” interrupted Julian,—” Has the earl or countess — ” 

‘^Earl or countess. Ha, ha, ha!” again laughed, or rather 
growled the warden. ” What is your head running on? You are 
a high fellow belike; but all is one here. The darbies are the fet- 
locks — the fast-keepers, my boy— the bail tor good behavior, my 
darling; and if you are not the more conforming, 1 can add you a 
steel night-cap, and a curious bosom-triend, to keep you warm of a 
winter night. But don’t be disheartened; you have behaved gen- 
teel; and you shall not be put upon. And as for this here matter, 
ten to one it will turn out chance medley, or manslaughter, at the 
worst on’t; and then it is but a singed thumb instead of a twisted 
neck — always it tliere be no papistry about it, for then 1 warrant 
nothing. Take the gentleman’s worship away. Clink.” 

A turnkey, who was one of the party that had ushered Peveril 
into the pi'esence of this Cerberus, now conveyed him out in silence; 
and, under his guidance, the prisoner was carried through a second 
labyrinth ot passages with cells opening on each side, to that which 
w^as destined tor his reception. 

On the road through this sad region, the turnkey more than once 
ejaculated, ” Why, the gentleman must be stark mad! Could have 
had the best crown cell to himselt tot less than half the garnish, and 
must pay double to pig in wdih Sir Geoffrey I Ha, hal Is Sir Geoff- 
rey akin to you, it any one may make free to ask?” 

am his son,” answered Paveril, sternly, in liopss to impost 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 321 

some curb on the fellow’s impertinence] but the man onl}" laughed 
louder than before. 

“ His son! Why, that’s the best of all — Why, j’ou are a strap- 
ping youth — five feet ten, it you be an inch — and Sir Geoffrey’s sou ! 
Ha, ha, hal’^ 

“Truce with your impertinence/’ said Julian. “My situation 
gives you no title to insult me!” 

“ No more 1 do,” said the turnkey, smothering his mirth at the 
recollection, perhaps, that the prisoner’s purse was not exhausted. 
“ 1 only laughed because you said you were Sir Geoffrey’s son. But 
no matter — ’tis a wise child that knows his own father. And here 
is Sir Geoffrey’s cell; so you and he may settle the fatherhood lie- 
tween you.” 

So saying, he ushered his prisoner into a cell, or rather a strong- 
room of the better order, in which there w^erefour chairs, a truckle- 
Ded, and one or two other articles of furniture. 

Julian looked eagerly around for his father; but to his surprise 
the room appeared totally empty. He turned with anger on the 
turnkey, and charged him with misleading him; but the fellow an- 
swered, “ No, no, master; 1 have kept faith with you. Your father, 
if 3 mu call him so, is onl^-- tappiced in some corner. A small hole 
will hide him; but I’ll rouse him out presently for you. Here, 
hoicks! Turn out, Sir Geoffrey! Here is — Ha, ha, ha! — your son, 
or your wife’s son— for 1 think you can have but little share in him 
—come to wait on you.” 

Peveril knew not how to resent the man’s insolence; and indeed 
his anxiety, and apprehension of some strange mistake, mingled 
with, and in some degree neutralized his anger. He looked again 
and again around and around the room ; until at length he became 
aware of something i-olled up in a dark corner, which rather resem- 
bled a small bundle of crimson cloth than any living creature. At 
the vociferation of the turnkey, however, the object seemed to ac- 
quire life and motion, uncoiled itself in some degree, and, after an 
effort or two, gained an erect posture; still covered from top to toe 
with the crimson drapery in which ic was at first wrapped. Julian, 
at the first glance, imagined from the size that he saw a child of five 
years old ; but a shrill and peculiar tone of voice soon assured him 
of his mistake. 

“ Warder,” said this unearthly sound, “ what is the meaning of 
this disturbance? Have you more insults to heap on the head of 
one who hath ever been the butt of fortune’s malice? But I have a 
soul that can wrestle with all my misfortunes; it is as large as any 
of j’-our bodies.” 

“Nay, Sir Geoffrey, if this be the way jmu welcome your own 
son!”— said the turnkey; “but you quality folks know your own 
wa 3 ^s best.” 

“My son!” exclaimed the little figure. “Audacious—” 

“ Here is some strange mistake,” said Peveril, in the same breath. 
“ 1 sought Sir Geoffrey — ” 

“And you have him before you, young man,” said the pigmy 
tenant of the cell, with an air of dignity; at the same time casting 
on the floor his crimson cloak, and standing before them in his full 
dignit}' of three feet six inches in heiglff. “ 1 who was the favored 

11 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK, 


322 

servant of three successive sovereigns of the Crown of England, am 
now the tenant of this dungeon, and the sport of its brutal keepers. 
1 am Sir Geoftrey Hudson,” 

Julian, though he had never before seen this important personage, 
had no difficulty in recognizing, from description, the celebrated 
dwarf of Henrietta Maria, who had survived the dangers of civil 
war and private quarrel— the murder of his royal master, Charles 
1., and the exile of his wiaovr — to fall upon evil tongues and evil 
days amidst the unsparing accusations connected with the Popish 
Plot. He bowed to the unhappy old man, and hastened to explain 
to him, and to the turnke}’’, that it was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, of Mar- 
tindale Castle in Derbyshire, whose prison he had desired to share. 

” You should have said that before you parted with the gold-dust, 
my master,” answered the turnkey; ” for t’other Sir Geoffrey, that 
is the big, tall, gray-haired man, was sent to the Tower last night; 
and the captain will think he has kept his word well enow with you, 
by lodging you with this here Sir Geoffrey Hudson, who is the bet- 
ter show of the two.” 

” 1 pray you go to your master,” said Peveril; ” explain the mis- 
take; and say to him 1 beg to be sent to the Tower.” 

“The Tower! Ha, ha, ha!” exclaimed the fellow. ” The Tower 
is for lords and knights, and not for squires of low degree — for high 
treason, and not for ruffling on the streets with rapier and dagger; 
and there must go a secretary’s warrant to send jmu there.” 

” At least, let me not be a burden on this gentleman,” said Julian. 

‘ ‘ There can be no use in quartering us together, since we are not 
even acquainted. Go tell your master of the mistake.” 

” Why, so I should,” said Clink, still grinning, “if 1 were not 
sure that he knew it already. You paid to be sent to Sir Geoffrey, 
and he sent you to Sir Geoftrey. You are so put down in the regis- 
ter, and he will blot it for no man. Come, come, be conformable, 
and you shall have light and easy irons — that’s all I can do for you.” 

Resistance and expostulation being out of the question, Peveril 
submitted to have a light pair of fetters secured on his ankles, which 
allowed him, nevertheless, the power of traversing the apartment. 

During this operation, he reliected that the jailer, who had taken 
the advantage of the equivoque betwixt the two Sir Geoffrey’s, 
must have acted as his assistant had hinted, and cheated him from 
malice prepense, since the warrant of committal described him as 
the son of Sir Geoffrey Peveril. It was therefore in vain, as' well as 
degrading, to make further application to such a man on the subject. 
Julian determined to submit to his fate, as what could not be avert 
ed by any effort of his own. 

Even the turnkey was moved in some degree by his youth, good 
mien, and the patience with which, after ithe first effervescence of 
disappointment, the new prisoner resigned himself to his situation. 
” You seem a brave young gentleman,” he said; ‘‘ and shall at least 
have a good dinner, and as good a pallet to sleep on, as is within the 
walls of Newgate. And, Master Sir Geoffrey, you ought to make 
much of him, since you do not like tall fellows: for 1 can tell you 
that Master Peveril is in tor pinking long Jack Jenkins, that was the 
Master of Defense — as tall a man as is in London, always (ixceptlug 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 323 

the king’s porter, Master Evans, that carried you about in his 
pocket. Sir Geoffrey, as all tin? world has heard tell.” 

Begone, fellow!” answered the dwarf. “ Fellow% 1 scorn you!” 
The turnkey sneered, withdrew, and locked the door behind him. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Degenerate youth, and not of Tydeus’ kind, 

Whose little body lodged a mighty mind. 

Iliad. 

Left quiet at least, if not alone, for the first time after the events 
of this troubled and varied day, Julian threw himself on an old 
oaken seat, beside the embers of a sea-coal fire, and began to muse 
on the miserable situation of anxiety'und danger in which he was 
placed; where, whether he contemplated the interests of his love, his 
family affections, or his friendship, all seemed such a prospect as 
that of a sailor who looks upon breakers on every hand, from the 
deck of a vessel whicii no longer obeys the helm. 

As Peveril sat sunk in despondency, his companion in misfortune 
drew a chair to the opposite side of the chimney-corner, and began 
to gaze at him with a sort of solemn earnestness, whicli at length 
compelled him, though almost in spite of himself, to pay some atlen- 
tion to the singular figure who seemed so much engrossed with con- 
templating him. 

Geoffrey Hudson (we drop occasionally the title of knighthood, 
which the king had bestowed on him in a frolic, but which might 
introduce some confusion into our histoiy), although a dwarf of the 
least possible size, had nothing positively ugly in his countenance, 
or actually distorted in his limbs. His tiead, hands, and feet, were 
indeed large, and disproportioned to the height of his body, and his 
body itself much thicker than was consistent with symmetry, but in 
a degree which was rather ludicrous than disagreeable to look upon. 
His countenance, in particular, had he been a little taller, would 
have been accounted, in youth, handsome, and now, in age, strik- 
ing and expressive; it was but the uncommon disproportion betwixt 
the head aiid the trunk which made the features seem whimsical 
and bizarre — an effect which was considerably increased by the 
dwarf’s mustaches, which it was his pleasure to wear so large, that 
they almost twisted back amongst, and mingled with, his grizzled 
hair. 

The dress of this singular wight announced that he was not en- 
tirely free from the unhappy taste which frequently induces those 
whom nature has marked by personal deformity to distinguish, and 
at the samp time to render themselves ridiculous, by the use of 
showy colors, and garments fantastically and extraordinarily fash- 
ioned. But poor Geoffrey Eludson’s laces, embroideries, and the 
rest of his finery, were sorely worn and tarnished by the time which 
he had spent in jail, under the vague and malicious accusation that 
he was somehow or other an accomplice in this all-involving, all- 
devouring whirlpool of a Popish conspirac}'' — an impeachment 
which, if pronounced by a mouth the foulest and most malicious, 
was at that time sufficiently predominant to sully the fairest reputa' 


324 PEVEIilL OF THE PEAK. 

tion. It will presently appear, that in the poor man’s manner of 
thinking, and tone of conversation, ^here was something analogous 
to his absurd fashion of apparel; for, as in the latter, good stuff and 
valuable decorations were rendered ludicrous by the fantastic fash- 
ion in which they were made up; so, such glimmerings of good 
sense and honorable feeling as the little man often evinced, were 
made ridiculous by a restless desire to assume certain airs of im- 
portance, and a great jealousy of being despised, on account of the 
peculiarity of his outward form. 

After tire fellow'- prisoners had looked at each other for some time 
in silence, the dwarf,, conscious of his dignity as first owner of their 
joint apa’’lment, thought it necessary to do the honors of it to the 
new-comer. “ Sir,” he said, jnodifying the alternate harsh and 
squeaking tones of his voice into accents as harmonious as they 
could attain, ” 1 understand you to be the son of my worthy name- 
sake, and ancient acquaintance, the stout Sir Geoffrey Peveril of the 
Peak. I promise 5 ^ 011 , 1 have seen your father w'here blow's have 
been going more plenty than gold pieces; and fora tall, heavy man, 
wdio lacked, as we martialists thought, some of the lightness and 
activity of our more slightly made cavaliers, he performed his duty 
as a man might desire. 1 am happv to see jmu, his son ; and, 
though by a mistake, 1 am glad we are to share this comfortless 
cabin together.” 

Julian bow’^ed, and thanked his courtesy; and Geoffrey Hudson 
having broken the ice, proceeded to question him without further 
ceremony. “You are no courtier, 1 presume, young gentleman?” 

Julian replied in the negative. 

“ 1 thought so,” continued the dwarf; “ for although 1 have now 
no official duty at court, the region in which my early years were 
spent, and where 1 once held a "considerable office, yet 1 still, when 
I had my liberty, visited the presence from time to time, as in duty 
bound for former service; and am wont, from old habit, to take 
some note of the courtly gallants, those choice spirits of the age, 
among whom 1 was once enrolled. You are, not to compliment 
you, a marked figure. Master Peveril— though something of the tall- 
est, as was your father’s case; 1 think, I could scarce have seen you 
anywhere without remembering you.” 

Peveril thought he might, with great justice, have returned the 
compliment, but contented himself wdth saying, “ he had scarce 
seen the British Court.” 

“ ’Tis pity,” said Hudson; “ a gallant can hardly be formed with- 
out frequenting it. But you have been perhaps in a rougher school; 
you have served, doubtless?” 

“ My Maker, 1 hope,” said Julian. 

“ Fie on it, you mistake. 1 meant,” said Hudson, d la Fran- 
Qoise — you have served in the army?” 

“ No. 1 have not yet had that honor,” said Julian. 

“AYhat! neither courtier nor soldier. Master Peveril?” said the 
important little man. “Youriather is to blame. By cock and pie 
he is. Master Peveril ! How shall a man be known, or distinguished, 
unless by his bearing in peace and war? 1 tell you, sir, that at 
Newberry, where I charged with my troop abreast with Prince Ru- 
pert, and when, as you may have heard, we w'cre both beaten off by 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 325 

those cuckoldly hinds the Trained Bands ot London — we did what 
men could; and 1 think it was a matter of thme or four minutes 
after most of our gentlemen had been driven off, that his highness 
and 1 continued to cut at their long pikes with our swords; and I 
think might have broken in, but that 1 had a tall, long-legged brute 
of a horse, and my sword was somewhat short— in fine, at last we 
were obliged to make volte-face, and then, as 1 was going to say, 
1 He fellows were so glad to get rid ot us, that they set up a great 
jubilee cry of ‘ There goes Prince Robin and Cock Robin!’ Ay, ay, 
every scoundrel among them knew me well. But those days are 
over. And where were you educated, young gentleman?” 

Peveril named the household of the Countess of Derby. 

“A most honorable lady, upon my word as a gentleman,” said 
Hudson. ” I knew the noble countess well, when 1 was about the 
person of my royal mistress, Henrietta Maria. She was then the 
very muster of all that was noble, loyal, and lovely. She was, in- 
deed, one of the fifteen fair ones of the court, whom 1 permitted to 
call me Piccoluomini— a foolish jest on my somewhat diminutive 
figure, which always distinguished me from ordinary beings, even 
when 1 was young. 1 have now lost much stature by stooping; but, 
always the ladies had their jest at me. Perhaps, young man, 1 had 
my own amends of some of them somewhere, or somehow or other. 
1 say nothing if I had or no; far less do 1 insinuate disrespect to the 
noble countess. She was daughter of the Due de la Tremouille, or, 
more correctly, Des Thouars. But certainly to serve the ladies, and 
condescend to their humors, even when somewhat too free, or too 
fantastic, is the true decorum of gentle blood.” 

Depressed as his spirits were, Peveril could scarce forbear smiling 
when he looked at the pigmy creature, v\-ho told these stories with 
infinite complacency, and appeared disposed to proclaim, as his own 
herald, that he nad been a very model of valor and gallantry, though 
love and arms seemed to be pursuits totally irreconcilable to his 
shriveled, weather-beaten countenance, and wasted limbs. Julian 
was, however, so careful to avoid giving his companion pain, that 
he endeavored to humor him, by saying, that, ‘‘ unquestionably, one 
bred up like Sir Geoffrey Hudson, in courts and camps, knew ex- 
actly when to suffer personal freedoms, and when to control them.” 

The little knight, with great vivacity, though with some difijculty, 
began to drag his seat from the side of the fire opposite to that where 
J ulian was seated, and at length succeeded in bringing it near him, 
in token of ia creasing cordiality. 

“You say well. Master Peveril,” said the dwarf ;“ and 1 have 
given proofs both of bearing and forbearing. Yes, sir, there was 
not that thing which m.y most royal mistress, Henrietta Maria, could 
liave required of me, that 1 would not have complied with, sir; 1 
was her sworn servant, both in war and in festival, in battle and 
pageant, sir. At her majesty’s particular request, 1 once conde- 
scended to l)ecome— ladies, you know, have strange fancies— to be- 
come the tenant, for a time, of the interior of a pie.” 

“ Of a pie?” said Julian, somewhat amazed. , 

“ Yes, sir, of a pie. 1 hope you find nothing risible in my com- 
plaisance?” replied his companion, something jealously, 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


326 

“ Not 1, sir,’’ said Peveril; “ I have other matters than laughter 
in my head at present. ” 

“ So had 1,” said the dwarfish champion, ‘^when X found my- 
self Imprisoned in a huge platter, of no ordinary dimensions you 
may be assured, since 1 could lie at length in it, and when 1 was 
entombed, as it were, in walls of standing crust, and a huge cover 
of pastry, the whole constituting a sort of sarcoplmgus, of size 
enough to have recorded the epitaph of a general officer or an arch- 
bishop on the lid. Sir, notwithstanding the conveniences which 
were made to give me air, it was more like being buried alive than 
aught else which 1 could think of-. ” 

“ i conceive it, sir,” said Julian. 

“Moreover, sir,” continued the dwarf, “there were few in the 
secret, which was contrived for the queen’s divei’tisement ; for ad- 
vancing of which 1 would have crept into a filbert nut, had it been 
possible; and few, as 1 said, being private in the scheme, there was 
a risk of accidents. 1 doubted, while in my darksome abode, 
whether some awkward attendant might not have let me fall, as 1 
have seen happen to a venison pasty; or whether some hungry guest 
might not anticipate the moment of my resurrection, by sticking his 
knife into my upper crust. And though 1 had my weapons about 
me, young man, as has been my custom in ever}^ case of peril, yet, it 
such a rash person had plunged deep into the bowels of the sup- 
posed pasty, my sword and dagger could barely have served me to 
avenge, assuredly not to prevent, either of these catastrophes.” 

“Certainly,! do so understand it,” said Julian, who began, 
however, to feel that the company of little Hudson, talkative as he 
showed himself, was likely rather to aggravate than to alleviate the 
inconveniences of a prison. 

“ Nay,” continued the little man, enlarging on his former topic, 
“I had other subjects of apprehension; for it pleased my Lord of 
Buckingham, his grace’s father who now bears the title, in his plen- 
itude of court favor, to command the past}^ to be carried down to 
the office, and committed anew to the oven, alleging preposterously 
that it was better to be eaten warm than cold.” 

“ And did this, sir, not disturb your equanimity?” said Julian. 

“ My young friend, ” said Geoffrey Hudson, “1 cannot deny it. 
Nature will claim her rights from the best and boldest of us. 1 
thought of Nebuchadnezzar and his fiery furnace; and 1 waxed 
warm with apprehension. But, I thank Heaven, 1 also thought of 
my sworn duty to my royal mistress; and was thereby obliged and 
enabled to resist all temptations to make myself prematurely "known. 
Nevertheless, the duke — if of malice, may Heaven iorgive him — 
followed down into the office himself, and urged the master-cook 
very hard that the pastry should be heated, were it but lor five min- 
utes. But the master-cook, being privy to the very different intent- 
ions of my royal mistress, did most manfully resist the order; and I 
was again reconveyed in safety to the royal table.” 

“ And in due time liberated from your confinement, 1 doubt not?” 
said Peveril. 

“ Aes, sir; that happy, and 1 may say, glorious moment, at length, 
arrived,” continued the dwarf. “ The upper crust was removed— I 
started up to the sound of trumpet and clarion, like the soul of a 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 327 

■ warrior when the last summons shall sound— or rather (if that simile 
be over audacious), like a -spell bound champion relieved from his 
enchanted stale. It was then that, with my buckler on my arm, 
and my trusty Bilboa in my hand, 1 executed a sort of warlike 
dance, in which my skill and agility then rendered me pre-eminent, 
displaying at the same time, my postures, both of defense and 
offense, in a manner so totally inimitable, that I was almost deafened 
with the applause of all around me, and half-drowned by the scent- 
ed waters with which the ladies of the court deluged me from their 
casting bottles. 1 had amends of his Grace of Buckingham also; 
for as 1 tripped a hasty morris hither and thither upon the dining- 
table, now offering my blade, now recovering it, I made a blow at 
his riose— a sort of estrama^on— the dexterity of which consists in 
coming mighty near to the object you seem to aim at, yet not attain- 
ing it. You may have seen a, barber make such a flourish with his 
razor. 1 promise you his grace sprung back a half -yard at least. He 
was pleased to threaten to brain me with a chicken-bone, as he dis- 
dainfully expressed it ; but the king said, ‘ George, you have but a 
Roland for an Oliver.’ And so 1 tripped on, showing a bold heedless- 
ness of his displeasure, which few dared to have done at that time, 
albeit countenanced to the utmost like me by the smiles of the brave 
and the fair. But, well-a-day! sir, youth, its fashions, its follies, its 
frolics, and all its pomp and pride, are as idle and transitory as the 
crackling of thorns under a pot.” 

‘‘The flower that is cast into the oven were a belter simile,” 
thought Peveril. “ Good God, that a man should live to regret not 
being young enough to be still treated as baked meat, and served up 
In a pie!” 

Ills companion, whose tongue had for many days been as closely 
imprisoned as his person, seemed resolved to indemnify his lo- 
quacity by continuing to indulge it on the present occasion at his 
companion’s expense. He proceeded, therefore, in a solemn tone, 
to moralize on the adventure which he had narrated. 

“Young men will no doubt think one to be envied,” he said, 
“ who was thus enabled to be the darling and admiration of the 
court ” — (Julian internally stood self-exculpated from the suspicion) 
— “ and yet it is belter to possess fewer means of distinction, and 
remain free from the backbiting, the slander, and the odium, which 
are always the share of court favor. Men who had no other cause, 
cast reflection's upon me because my size varied somewhat from the 
common proportion; and jests were sometimes unthinkingly passed 
upon me by those 1 was bound to, who did not in that case, perad- 
venture, sufficiently consider that the wren is made by the same 
hand which formed the bustard, and that the diamond, though 
small in size, outvalues ten thousand-fold the rude granite. Never- 
theless, they proceeded in the vein of humor; and as 1 could not in 
duty or gratitude retort upon nobles and princes, 1 was compelled 
to cast about in my mind how to vindicate my honor toward those, 
who, being in the same rank with myself, as servants and courtiers, 
nevertheless bore themselves toward me as if they were of a superior 
class in the rank of honor, as well as in the accidental circumstance 
of stature. And as a lesson to my own pride, and that of others, it 
so happened, that the pageant which Ihav^e but just naiiated — which 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


328 

1 justly reckon the most honorable moment of my life, excepting 
perhaps my distinguished share in the battle of Eound-way-down — 
became the cause of a most tragic event, in which I acknowledge 
the greatest misfortune of my existence.” 

The dwarf here paused, fetched a sigh, big at once with regret, 
and with the importance becoming the subject of a tragic history; 
then proceeded as follows ; 

“You would have thought in your simplicity, young gentleman, 
that the pretty pageant I have mentioned could only have been quot- 
ed to my advantage, as a rare masking frolic, prettily devised, and 
not less deftly executed; and yet the malice of the courtiers, who 
maligned and envied me, made them strain their wit, and exhaust 
their ingenuity in putting false and ridiculous constructions upon 
it. In short, my ears Mere so much offended with allusions to pies, 
puff-paste, ovens, and the like, that 1 was compelled to prohibit 
such subject of mirth, under penalty of my instant and severe dis- 
pleasure. But it happ’d there was then a gallant about the court, a 
man of good quality, son to a knight baronet, and in high esteem 
with the best in that sphere, also a familiar friend of mine own, 
from whom, therefore, i had no reason to expect any of that species 
of gibing which I had intimated my purpose to treat as offensive. 
Howbeit, it pleased the honorable Mr. Crofts, so was this youth 
called and designed, one night, at the Groom Porter’s, being full of 
wine and waggery, to introduce this threadbare subject, and to say 
something concerning a goose-pie, which 1 could not but consider as 
leveled at me. Nevertheless, 1 did but calmlj’- and solidly pray him 
to choose a different subject; failing which, 1 let him knowl should 
be sudden in my resentment. Notwithstanding, he continued in the 
same tone, and even aggravated the offense, by speaking of a tomtit, 
and other unnecessary and obnoxious comparisons ; whereupon 1 was 
compelled to send him a cartel, and we met accordingly. Now, as 
1 really loved the youth, it was my intention only to correct him by 
a flesh wound or two; and 1 would willingly that he had named 
the sword tor his weapon. Nevertheless, he made pistols his elec- 
tion; and being on horseback, he produced, by way of his own 
weapon, a foolish engine which children are wont, in their roguery, 
to use for spouting water; a— a in short, 1 forget the name.” 

” A squirt, doubtless,” said Peveril, who began to recollect hav- 
ing heard something of this adventure. 

“You are right,” said the dwarf; ” you have indeed the naihe of 
the little engine, 9 f which 1 have had experience in passing the 
yards at A-V estminster. Well, sir, this token of slight regard com- 
pelled me to give the gentleman such language as soon rendered it 
necessary for him to take more serious arms. W e fought on horse- 
back — breaking ground, and advancing by signal; and, as 1 never 
miss aim, 1 had the misadventure to kill the Honorable Master Crofts 
at the first shot. 1 would not wish my worst foe the pain which 1 
felt, wiien 1 saw him reel on his saddle, and so fall down to the 
earth! — and, when I perceived that the life-blood was pouring Hist, 
1 could not but wish to Heaven that it had been my own instead of 
his. Thus fell youth, hopes, and bravery, a sacrifice to a silly and 
thoughtless jest; yet, alas! wherein had 1 choice, seeing that honor 


PEYERIL OE THE PEAK. 329 

is, as it were, the very breath in our nostrils, and that in no sense 
can we be said to live, if we permit ourselves to be deprived of it?” 

The tone of feelinp: in which the dwarfish hero concluded his 
story, gave Julian a better opiuion of his heart, and even of his un- 
derstanding, lhan he had been able to form of one who gloried in 
having, upon a grand occasion, formed the contents of a pasty. He 
was indeed enabled to conjecture that the little champion was se- 
duced into such exhibitions, by the necessity attached to his condi- 
tion, by his own vanity, and by the flattery bestowed on him by 
those who sought pleasure in practical jokes. The fate erf the un- 
lucky Master Crofts, however, as well as various exploits. of this 
diminutive person during the Civil Wars, in which he actually, and 
with great gallantry, commanded a troop of horse, rendered most 
men cautious of openly rallying him; which was indeed the less 
necessary, as, when left alone, he seldom failed voluntarily to show 
himself on the ludicrous side. 

At one hour after noon, the turnkey, true to his word, supplied 
the prisoiaers with a very tolerable dinner and a flask of well fla- 
vored, though light claret; which the old man, who was something 
of a bon-vivant, regretted to observe, was nearly as diminutive as 
himself. The evening also passed away, but not without continued 
symptoms of garrulity on the part of Geoffrey Hudson. 

It is true these were of a graver character than he had hitherto ex- 
hibited, for when the flask was empty, he repeated a long Latin 
prayer. But the religious act in which he had been engaged, only 
gave his discourse a more serious turn than belonged to" his former 
themes, of war, lady’s love, and courtly splendor. 

The little knight harangued, at first on polemical points of divin- 
ity, and diverged from this thorny path, into the neighboring and 
twilight walk of mysticism. He talked of secret warnings— of the 
predictions of sad-eyed prophets — of the visits of monitory spirits, 
and the Rosicrucian secrets of the Cabala ; all which topics he treat- 
ed of with such apparent conviction, nay, with so many appeals to 
personal experience, that one would have supposed him a member 
of the fraternity of gnomes, or fairies, whom he resembed so much 
in poini of size. 

In short, he persevered for a stricken hour in such a torrent of un- 
necessary tattle, as determined Peveril, at all events, to endeavor to 
procure a separate lodging. Having repeated his evening prayers in 
Latin, as formerly (for the old gentleman was a. Catholic, which was 
the sole cause of his falling under suspicion), he set off on a new 
score, as they were undressing, and continued to prattle until he had 
fairly talked both himself and his companion to sleep. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Of airy tongues that syllable men’s names. 

C'OMUS. 

Julian had fallen asleep, with his brain rather filled with his own 
sad reflections, than with the mystical lore of the little knight; and 
yet it seemed as it in his visions the latter had been more present to 
his mind than the former. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


330 

He dreamed of gliding spirits, gibbering phantoms, bloody hands, 
which, dimly seen by twilight, seemed to beckon him forward like 
errant-knight on sad adventure bound. More than once he started 
from his sleep, so lively was the influence of these visions on his im- 
agination; and he always awaked under the impression that some 
one stood by his bedside. The chillness of iris ankles, the weight and 
clatter of the fetters, as he turned himself on his pallet, reininded 
him on these occasions where he was, and under what circum- 
stances. The extremity to which he saw all that was dear to him 
at present reduced struck a deeper cold on his heart than the iron 
upon his limbs; nor could he compose himself again to rest without 
a mental pra^^er to Heaven for protection. But when he^ had been 
for a third time awakened from repose by these thick-stirring fan- 
cies, his distress of mind vented itself in speech, and he was unable 
to suppress the almost despairing ejaculation, “ God have mercy 
upon us!” 

“Amen!” answeied a voice as sweet and “ soft as honey dew,” 
which sounded as if the words were spoken close by his bedside, ^ 

The natural inference was, that Geoffrey Hudson, his companion 
in calamity, had echoed the prayer which was so projDer to the situ- 
ation of both. But the tone of voice was so diflerent from the harsh 
and dissonant sounds of the dwarf’s enunciation, that Peveril was 
impressed with the certainty it could not proceed from Hudson. He 
was struck with involuntary terror, for which he could give no 
sufficient reason; and it was not without an effort that he was able ‘ 
to utter the question, ” {Sir Geoffrey, did you speak?” 

No answer was returned. He repeated the question louder; and 
the same silver-toned voice, which had formerly said "'Amen"’ to 
his prayers, answered to his interrogatory, ” Your companion will 
not awake while 1 am here.” 

‘‘ And who are you? What seek you? How came you into this 
place?” said Peveril, huddling, eagerly, question upon question. 

‘‘1 am a wretched being, but one who loves you well. 1 come 
for your good. Concern yourself no further.” 

It now rushed on J ulian’s mind that he had heard of persons 
possessed of the wonderful talent of counterfeiting sounds to such ' 
accurac}^ that they could impose on their hearers the belief that 
they proceeded from a point of the apartment entirely opposite to 
that which the real speaker occupied. Persuaded that he had now 
gained the depth of the mystery, he replied, ” This trifling, Sir^ji 
Geoffrey, is unseasonable. Say what you have to say in your own ^ 
voice and manner. These apish pleasantries do not become mid- 
night in a Newgate dungeon. ” 

” But the being who speaks with you,” answered the voice, ” Is ' 
fitted for the darkest hour, and the most melancholy haunts.” 

Impatient of suspense, and determined to satisfy his curiosity, 
Julian jumped at once from his pallet, hoping to secure the speaker, ; 
whose voice indicated he was so near. But he altogether failed in 
his attempt, and grasped nothing save thin air. 

For a turn or two Peveril shuffled at random about the room, V 
with his arms extended; and then at last recollected, that with the^^ 
impediment of his shackles, and the noise which necessarily accom-ij^ 
panied his motions, and announced where he was, it would be im- J 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


331 

possible for him to lay hands on any one who might be disposed to 
keep out of his reach. He therefore endeavored to return to his 
bed; but, in gioniug for his way, lighted first on that of his fellow- 
prisoner. The little captive slept deep and heavy, as was evinced 
trorn his breathing; and upon listening a moment, Julian became 
again certain, either that his companion was the most artful of ven- 
triloquists and of dissemblers, or that there was actually within the 
precincts of that guarded chamber some third being whose very 
presence there seemed to intimate that it belonged not to the ordi- 
nary line of humanity 

Julian was no ready believer in the supernatural; but that age was 
very far from being so incredulous concerning ghostly occurrences 
as our own; and it was no way derogatory to his good sense that he 
shared the prejudices of his time. His hair began to bristle, and 
the moisture to stand on his brow, as he called on his companion to 
awake, for Heaven’s sake. 

The dwarf answered — but he spoke without awaking — “ The day 
may dawn and be d — d. Tell the master of the horse 1 will not go 
to the hunting unless 1 have the little black jennet.” 

“ 1 fell you,” said Julian, ” there is some one in the apartment. 
Have you not a tinder-box to strike a light?” 

‘‘ 1 care not how slight my horse be,” replied the slumbeier, pur- 
suing his own train of ideas, which, doubtless, carried him back to 
the green woods of Windsor, and tlie royal deer-hunts which he had 
witnessed there. ‘‘ 1 am not overweight. I will not lide that great 
Holstein brute, that 1 must climb up to hy a ladder, and then sit on 
his back like a pin-cushion on an elephant.” 

Julian at length put his hand to the sleeper’s shoulder, and shook 
him so as to awake him from his dream; when, after two or three 
snorts and groans, the dwarf asked, peet^ishly, what the devil ailed 
him? 

” The devil himself, for what 1 know,” said Peveril, ” is at this 
very moment in the room here beside us.” 

The dwarf on this information started up, crossed himself, and 
began to hammer a flint and steel with all dispatch, until he had 
lighted a little piece of candle, which he said was consecrated to 
Saint Bridget,^ and as powerful as the herb called dtmionum, or 
the liver of the fish burnt byTobit in the house of Raguel, for chas- 
ing all goblins and evil or dubious spirits from the place of its 
radiance; “if, indeed,” as the dwarf carefully guarded his propo- 
sition, “ the}'' existed any where, save in the imagination of his fel- 
low-prisoner.” 

Accordingly, the apartment was no sooner enlightened by this 
lioly candle's end, than Julian began to doubt the evidence of his 
own ears; for not only was there no one in the room save Sir Geoffrey 
Hudson and himself, but all the fastenings of the door were so 
secure that it seemed impossible that they could have been opened 
and again fixed without a great deal of noise, which, on the last 
occasion at least, could not possibly have escaped his eai-s, seeing 
that be must have been on his feet, and employed in searching the 
chamber, when the unknown, if an earthly being, was in the act of 
retreating from it. 

Julian gazed for a moment with great earnestness, and no little. 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK, 


332 

perplexity, firet on the bolted door, then on the grated window; and 
began to accuse his own imagination ot having played him an un- 
pleasant trick. He answered little to the questions of Hudson, and, 
returning to his bed, heard, in silence, a long studied oration on the 
merits of Saint Bridget, which comprehended the greater part of her 
long-winded legend, and concluded with the assurance, that, from 
all jiccounts preserved of her, that holy saint was the least of all pos- 
sible women, except those of the pigmy kind. 

By the time the dwarf had ceased to speak, Julian’s desire of sleep 
had returned ; and after a few glances around the apartment, which 
was still illuminated by the expiring beams ot the holy taper, his 
eyes were again closed in forgetfulness, and his repose was not again 
disturbed in the course of tiiat night. 

IMorniug dawns on Newgate, as. well as on the freest mountain- 
turf which Welshman or wild-goat ever trode; but in so difterent a 
fashion, that the very beams of heaven’s precious sun, when they 
penetrate into the recesses of the prison-house, have the air of being 
committed to jail. Still, with the light of day around him, Peveril 
easily persuaded himself of the vanity ot his preceding night’s 
visions ; and smiled when he reflected that fancies, similar to. those 
to which his ear was often exposed in the Isle of J\lan, had been 
able to arrange themselves in a manner so impressive, when he heard 
them from the mouth of so singular a character as Hudson, and in 
the solitude of a prison. 

Before Julian had awaked, the dwarf had already quitted his 
bed, and was seated in the chimney corner of the apartment, where, 
with his own hands, he had arranged a morsel of fire, partlj'^ attend- 
ing to the simmering of a small pot, which he had placed on the 
flame, partly occupied with a huge folio volume which lay on the 
table before him, and seemed well-nigh as tall and bulky as him- 
self. He was wrapped up in the dusky crimson cloak already men- 
tioned, which served him for a morning-gown, as well as a mantle 
against the cold, and which corresponded with a large montero-cap, 
that enveloped his head. The singularity of his features, and ot the 
eyes, armed with spectacles, which were now cast on the subject of 
his studies, now directed toward his little caldron, would have 
tempted Kembrandt to exhibit him on canvas, either in the char- 
acter of an alchemist, or of a necromancer, engaged in some strange 
experiment, under the direction of one of the huge manuals which 
treat of Hie theory ot tliese m 3 ^stic arts. 

The attention of the dwarf was bent, however, upon a more 
domestic object. He was only preparing soup, of no unsavory 
quality, for breakfast, which he invited Peveril to partake with 
him. “1 am an old soldier,” he said, “ and, I must add, an old 
prisoner; and understand how to shift for myself better than 3 ^ou 
can do, young man. Confusion to the scoundrel Clink, he has put 
the spice-box out of my reach! Will 3^11 hand it me from the man- 
telpiece? 1 will teach you, as the French have it, faire la cuisine; - 
and then, if you please, we will divide, like brethren, the labors ot . 
our prison-house.” 

' Julian readily assented to the little man’s friendly proposal, with- 
out interposing any doubt as to his continuing an inmate of the same 
cell. Truth is, that although, upon the whole, he was inclined to 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 833 

regard the whispering voice of the pieceding evening as the impres- 
sion of his own excited fanc}^ he felt, nevertheless, curiosity to see 
how a second night was to pass over in the same cell; and the tone 
of the invisible intruder, which at midnight had been heard by him 
with terror, now excited, on recollection, a gentle and not unpleas- 
ing species of agitation — the combined effect of awe and of 
awakened curiosity. 

Days ot saptivity have little to mark them as they glide away. 
That which followed the night which we have described, afforded 
no circumstance of note. The dwarf imparted to his youthful com- 
panion a volume similar to that which formed his own studies, and 
which proved to be a tome of one of Scuderi’s now forgotten ro- 
mances, of which Geoffrey Hudson was a great admirer, and which 
were then very fashionable both at the French and English courts; 
although they contrive to unite in their immense folios all the im- 
probabilities and absurdities of the old romances of chivalry with- 
out that tone of imagination which pervades them, and all the 
metaphysical absurdities which Cowley and the poets of the age had 
heaped upon the passion of love, like so many load of small coal 
upon a slender fire, which it smothers instead of aiding. 

But Julian had no alternative, saving only to muse over the sor- 
rows of Artamenes and Mandane, or on the complicated distresses of 
his own situation; and in these disagreeable divertisements the 
morning crept through as it could. 

Noon first, and thereafter nightfall, were successively marked by 
a brief visit from their stern turnkey, who, with noiseless step and 
sullen demeanor, did in silence the necessary offices about the meals 
of the prisoners, exchanging with them as few words as an official 
in the Spanish Inquisition might have permitted himself upon a 
similar occasion. With the same taciturn gravity, very different 
from the laughing humor into which he had been surprised on a 
former occasion, he struck their fetters with a small hammer, to 
ascertain, by the sound thus produced, whether they had been 
tampered with by file or otherwise. He next mounted on a table to 
make the same experiment on the window-grating. 

Julian’s heart throbbed; for might not one of those grates have 
been so tampered with as to give entrance to the nocturnal visitant? 
But they returned to (he experienced ear of Master Clink, when he 
struck them in turn with the harpmer, a clear and ringing sound, 
which assured him of their security. 

“ It would be difficult for any one to get in through these de- 
fenses,” said Julian, giving vent in words lo his own feelings. 

” Few wish that,” answered the surly groom,’' misconstruing what 
was passing in Peveril’s mind; ” and let me tell you, master, folks 
will find it quite as difficult to gel out.” He retired, and night 
came on. 

The dwarf, who took upon himself for the day (he whole duties 
of the apartment, trundled about the room, making a most impor- 
tant clutter as he extinguished their fire, and put aside various mat- 
ters which had been in use in the course of the day, talking to him- 
self all the while in a tone of no litlle consequence, occasionally 
grounded on the dexterity with vffiich an old soldier could turn his 
baud to everything; and at other 'times, on the wonder that a 


884 


PEYERTL OF THE PEAK. 


courtier of the first rank should condescend to turn his hand to any 
thing. Then came the repetition of his accustomed prayers; but liis 
disposition to converse did not, as on the former occasion, revive 
after his devotions. On the contrary, long before Julian had closed 
an eye, the heavy breathing from Sir Geoffrey Hudson’s pallet de- 
clared that the dwarf w^as already in the arms of Morpheus. 

Amid the total darkness of the apartment, and with a longing de- 
sire, and at the same time no small fear for the recurrence of the 
mysterious address of the preceding evening, Julian lay long awake 
without his thoughts receiving any interruption save when the clock 
told the passing hour from the neighboring steeple of St. Sepulcher. 
At length he sunk into slumber; but had not slept, to his judgment, 
above an hour, when he was roused by the sound which his waking 
ear had so long expected in vain. 

“ Can you sleep? Will you sleep? Dare you sleep?” were the 
questions impressed on his ear, in the same clear, soft, and melodi- 
ous voice, which had addressed him on the preceding night. 

“ Who is it asks me the question?” answered Julian. ” Hut be 
the questioner good or evil, I reply that 1 am a guiltless prisoner; 
and that innocence may wish and dare to sleep soundly.” 

‘‘Ask no questions of me,” said the voice; ‘‘neither attempt to 
discover wiio speaks to you; and be assured that folly alone can 
sleep, with fraud around and danger before him.” 

‘‘ Can you, who toll me of dangers, counsel me how to combat or 
how to avoid them?” said Julian. 

‘‘ My powder is limited,” said the voice; “ yet something 1 can do, 
as the glow’’- worm can show^ a precipice. But you must confide in 
me.” 

“ Confidence must beget confidence,” answered Julian. “ 1 can- 
not repose trust in 1 know not what or whom.” 

“ iSpeak not so loud,” replied the voice, sinking almost into a 
whisper. 

‘‘Last night you said my companion would not awake,” said 
Julian. 

“ To night 1 warrant not that he shall sleep,” said the voice. And 
as it spoke, the hoarse, snatching, discordant tones of theclw%arf w'ere 
heard, demanding of Julian why he talked in his sleep— wherefore 
he did not rest himself, and let other people rest— and, finally, 
wdictlier his visions of last night were returned upon him again? 

“ Say yes,” said the voice, in a whisper, so lowq yet so distinct, 
that Julian almost doubted whether it wais not an echo oi his own 
thought—” Say but yes — and 1 part to return no more!” 

In desperate ciieumstances men look to strange and unusual 
remedies ; and although unable to calculate the chances of advantage 
which this singular communication opened to him, Julian did not 
feel inclined to let them at once escape from him. He answ^ered the 
dwarf that he had been troubled by an alarming dream. 

” 1 could have sworn it, from the sound of your voice,” said Hud- 
son. “It is stiange, now, that you overgrown men never possess 
the extreme firmness of nerves proper to us wdio are east in a more 
compact mold. My own voice retains its masculine sounds on all 
occasions. Dr. Cockerel was of opinion, that there was the same 
allowance of nerve and sinew to men of every size, and that nature 


f 


rEYETlTL OF THE PEAK. 


335 


spun the stock out thinner or stronger, according to the extent of 
surface which they were to cover. Hence, the least creatures are 
oftentimes the strongest. Place a beetle under a tall candle-stick, 
and the insect will move it by its efforts to get out; which is, in 
point of comparative strength" as if one of us should shake his 
majesty’s prison of Newgate by similar struggles. Cats also, and 
weasels, are creatures of greater exertion or endurance than dogs or 
sheep. And in general, you may remark, that little men dance 
better, and are more unwearied under exertion of every kind than 
those to whom their own weight must necessarily be burdensome. 
1 respect you. Master Peveril, because 1 am told you have killed one 
of those gigantic fellows, who go about swaggering as if their souls 
were taller than ours, because their noses are nearer to the clouds by 
a cubit or two. But do not value yourself on this, as any thiug very 
unusual. 1 would have you to know it hath been always thus; and 
that, in the history of all ages, the clean, tight, dapper little felloAv, 
hath proved an overmatch for his bulky antagonist. 1 need only 
instance, out of Holy Writ, the celebrated downfall of Goliah, and 
of another lubbard, who had more fingers to his hand, and more 
inches to his stature, than ought to belong to an honest man, and 
who was slain by a nephew of good King David; and of many others 
whom 1 do not remember; nevertheless, tliej^ were all Philistines of 
gigantic stature. In the classics, also, you have Tydeus, and other 
tight, compact heroes, whose diminutive bodies were the abode of 
large minds. And indeed you may observe, in sacred as well as pro- 
fane history, that your giants are ever heretics and blasphemers, 
robbers and oppressors, outragers of the female sex, and scoffers at 
regular authority. Such were Gog and Magog, whom our authentic 
chronicles vouch to have been slain near to Plymouth, by the good 
little Knight Corineus, who gave name to Cornwall. Ascaparte also 
was subdued by Bevis, and Colbrand by Guy, as Southampton and 
Warwick can testify. Like unto these was the giant Hoel, slain in 
Bretagne by King Arthur. . And it Ryence, King of North Wales, 
who was done to death by the same worthy champion of Christen- 
dom, be not actually termed a giant, it is plain he was little better, 
since he required twenty- tour king’s beards, which were then worn 
full and long, to fur his gown; whereby, computing each beard at 
eighteen inches (and you cannot allow less for a beard-royal), and 
supposing only the front of the gown trimmed therewith, as we use 
ermine; and that the back was mounted and lined, instead. of cat- 
skins and squirrels’ fur, with the beards of earls and dukes, and 
other inferior dignitaries— may amount to — But I will work the 
question to-morrow.” 

Nothing is more soporific to any (save a philosopher or moneyed 
man) than the operation of figures; and when in bed, the effect is 
irresistible. Sir Geoffrey fell asleep in tne act ot calculating King 
Ryence’s height, from the supposed length of his mantle. Indeed, 
had he not stumbled on this abtruse subject of calculation, there is 
no guessing how long he might have held forth upon the superiority 
of men ot little stature, which vras so great a favorite with him, 
that, numerous as such narratives are, the dwarf had collected almost 
all • the instances of their victories over giants, which history or 
romance afforded. 


336 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


No sooner had unequivocal signs of the dwarf’s sound si umbel's 
reached Julian's ears, than he began again to listen eagerly for the 
renewal of that mysterious communication which was at once in- 
teresting and awful. Even whilst Hudson was speaking, he had, 
instead of bestowing his attention upon his eulogy on persons of 
low stature, kept his ears on watchful guard, to marK, it possible, 
the lightest sounds of any sort which might occur in the apartment; 
so that he thought it scarce possible that even a fly should have left 
it without its motion being overheard. If, therefore, his invisible 
monitor was indeed a creature of this world — an opinion which 
Julian’s sound sense rendered him unwilling to renounce — that be- 
ing could not have left the apartment; and he waited impatiently 
for a renewal of their communication. He was disappointed; not 
the slightest sound reached his ear; and the nocturnal visitor, if still 
in the room, appeared determined on silence. 

It was in vain that Peveril coughed, hemmed, and gave other 
symptoms of being awake; at length, such became his impatience, 
that he resolved, at any risk, to speak first, in hopes of renewing the 
communication betwixt them. “ Whoever thou art,” he said, in a 
voice loud enough to Bb heard by a waking person, but not so high 
as to disturb his sleeping companion—*' Whoever, or w’hatever thou 
art, that hast shown some interest in the fate of such a castaway as 
Julian Peveril, speak once more, 1 conjure thee; and be 5 'our com- 
munication for good or evil, believe me, 1 am equally prepared to 
abide the issue. ” 

No answer of any kind was returned to this invocation; nor did 
the least sound intimate the presence of the being to whom it w'as 
so solemnly addressed. 

“ 1 speak in vain,” said Julian; “ and perhaps 1 am but invoking 
that which is insensible of human feeling, or which takes a malign 
pleasure in human suffering.” 

There was a gentle and halt -broken sigh from a corner of the 
apartment, wdiich, answering to this exclamation, seemed to con- 
tradict the imputation 'which it conveyed. 

Julian, naturally courageous, and familiarized by this time to his 
situation, raised himself in bed, and stretched out his arm, to repeat 
his adjuration, \vhen the voice, as if alarmed at his action and 
energy, whispered, in a tone more hurried than that which it had 
hitherto used, “ Be still— move not — or 1 am mute for ever!” 

“It is then a mortal being who is present with me,” was the 
natural inference of Julian, “ and one who is probably afraid of 
being detected; 1 have then some pow’er over my visitor, though 1 
must be cautious howl use it. If your intents are friendly,’' he pro- 
ceeded, “ there w^as never a time in which I lacked friends more, or 
wmuld be more grateful for kindness. The fate of all who are dear 
to me is weighed in the balance, and w-ith worlds would 1 buy the 
tidings of their safety.” 

“ 1 have said my power is limited,” replied the voice. “ You 1 
may be able to preserve — the late of your friends is beyond my con- 
trol.” 

“ Let me at least know it,” said Julian; “ and, be it as it may, 1 
will not shun to share it. ” • 

“ For whom would you inquire?” said the soft, sweet voice, not 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 337 

without a tremulousneps ot accent, as if the question was pul with 
diffident reluctance. 

“My parents,” said Julian, after a moment’s hesitation; “how 
fare they? What will be their fate?” 

“ They fare as the fort under which the enemy has dug a deadly 
mine. ^ The work may have cost the labor of years, such were the 
impediments to the engineers; but Time brings opportunity upon 
its wings.” 

“ And what will be the event?” said Peveril. 

“ Can 1 read the fulure,” answered the voice, “ save by compari- 
son willi the past? Who has been hunted on these stern and un- 
mitigable accusations, but has been at last brought to bay? Did 
high and noble birth, honored age, and approved benevolence, save 
the unfortunate Lord Stafford? Did learning, capacity of intrigue, 
or high court favor, redeem Coleman, although the confidential 
servant of the heir presumptive of the Crown of England? Did 
subtil ty and genius, and the exertions of a numerous sect, save Fen- 
wicke, or AVhitbread, or any other of the accused priests? Were 
Groves, Pickering, or the other humble wretches who have suffered, 
safe in their obscurity? There is no condiWon in life, no degree of 
talent, no form of principle, which alfords protection against an 
accusation, which levels conditions, confounds characters, render’s 
men’s virtues their sins, and rates them as dangerous in proportion 
as they have influence, though attained in the noblest manner, and 
used for the best purposes. Call such a one but an accessory to the 
Plot — let him be mouthed in the evidence ot Oates or Dugdale — 
and the blindest shall foresee the issue of their trial.” 

“ Prophet of Evil!” said Julian, “ my father has a shield invul 
nerable to protect him. He is innocent. ” 

“Let him plead his innocence at the bar of Heaven,” said the 
voice; “ it will serve him little where Scroggs presides.” 

“ Still 1 fear not,” said Julian, counterfeiting more confience than 
he really possessed; “ my father’s cause will be pleaded before twelve 
Englishmen.” 

“ Better before twelve wild beasts,” answered the Invisible, “ than 
before Englishmen, influenced with party prejudice, passion, and 
the epidemic terror of an imaginary danger. They are bold in guilt 
in proportion to the number amongst whom the crime is divided^.” 

“ Ill-omened speaker,” said Julian, “ thine is indeed,a voice fitted 
only to sound with the midnight bell and the screech-owl. Yet 
again. Tell me, if thou canst (lie would have said of Alice 
Bridgenorth, but the word would not leave his tongue)— •“ Tell 
me,” he said, “ if the noble house of Derby—” 

“ Let them keep their rock like the sea-fowl in the tempest; and" 
it may so fall out,” answered the voice, “ that their rock may be 
a safe refuge. But there is blood on their ermine; and revenge has 
dogged them for many a year, like a bloodhound that hath been 
distanced in the morning chase, but may yet grapple the quarry ere 
the sun shall set. At present, however, they are safe. Am 1 now 
to speak further on your own afiairs, which involve little short of 
your life and honor? or are there yet any whose interests you prefer 
to your own?” 

“There is,” said Julian, “one, from whom 1 was violently 


PEVERTL OF THE PEAK. 


338 . 

parted yesterday; if 1 knew but of lier safety, I were little anxious 
for my own.” 

“One!” returned tlie voice, “only one from whom 3 ''cu were 
parted yesterday?” 

‘‘ But in parting from whom,” said Julian, “I felt separated 
from all happiness which the world can give me.” 

” You mean Alice Bridgenorth,” said the Invisible, with some 
bitterness of accent; “ but her you will never see more. Your own 
life and hers depend on your forgetting each other. ” 

” 1 cannot purchase my own life at that price,” replied Julian. 

” Then die in your obstinacy,” returned the Invisible; nor to all 
the entreaties whicli he used was he able to obtain another wora in 
the course of that remarkable night. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A short-hough’d man, but full of pride. 

^ Allan Ramsay. 

The blood of Julian Peveril was so much fevered by the state in 
which his invisible visitor left him, that he was unable, for a length 
of time, to find repose. He swore to himself, that he would discover 
and expose the nocturnal demon which stole on his hours of rest, 
only to add gall to bitterness, and to pour poison into those w^ounds 
which alread}^ smarted so severely. There was nothing which his 
power extended to, that, in his rage, he did not threaten. He pro- 
posed a closer and a niore rigorous survey of his cell, so that he 
might discover the mode by which his tormentor entered, were it as . 
unnoticeable as an auger-hole. If his diligence should prove un- 
availing, he determined to inform the jailers, to whom it could not 
be indifferent to know that their prison was open to such intrusions. 
He proposed to himself, to discover from their looks, whether they 
were already privy to these visits; and if so, to denounce them to the 
magistrates, to the judges, to the House of Commons, was the least 
that his resentment proposed. Sleep surprised his worn-out frame 
in the midst of his projects of discovery and vengeance, and, as fre- 
quently happens, the light of the ensuing day proved favorable to 
calmer resolutions. 

He now reflected that he had no ground to consider the motives of ' 
his visitor as positively malevolent, although he had afforded him 
little encouragement to hope for assistance on the points he had most ■ 
at heart. Toward himself, there had been expressed a decided feel- : 
ing, both of sympathy and interest ; if through means of these he 
could acquire his liberty, he might, when possessed of freedom, turn - 
it to the benefit of those for whom he was more interested than for 
his own welfare. ” 1 have behaved like a fool,” he said; ” I ought ; 
to have temporized with this singular being, learned the motives of j 
its interference, and availed myself of its succor, provided 1 could do ] 
so without any dishonorable conditions. It would have been always ; 
time enough to reject such when they should have been proposed to \ 
me.” 'i 

So saying, he was forming projects for regulating his intercourse ■ 
with the stranger more prudently, in case their communication ' 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


839 

should be renewed, when liis meditations were interrupted by the 
peremptory summons ot Sir Geoffrey Hudson, that he would, in his 
turn, be pleased to perform those domestic duties of their common 
habitation, which the dwarf had yesterday taken upon himself. 

There was no resisting a request so reasonable, and Peveril ac- 
cordingly rose and betook himself to the arrangement of their prison, 
while Sir Hudson, perched upon a stool from which his legs did not 
by halt way reach the ground, sat in a posture of elegant languor, 
twangling upon an old broken-winded guitar, and singing songs in 
Spanish, Moorish, and Lingua Franca, most detestably out of tune. 
He failed not, at the conclusion of each ditty, to favor Julian with 
some account of what he had sung, either in the way of translation, 
or historical anecdote, or as the lay was connected with some peculiar 
part of his own eventful history, in the course ot which the poor 
little man had chanced to have been taken by a Sallee rover and 
carried captive into Morocco. 

This part of his life Hudson used to make the era of many strange 
adventures; and, if he could himself be believed, he had made wild 
work among the affections of the emperor’s seraglio. But, although 
few were in a situation to cross-examine him on gallantries and in- 
trigues of wdiich the scene was so remote, th^ officers of the garrison 
of Tangier had a report current amongst them, that the only use to 
which the tyrannical Moom could convert a slave of such slender 
corporeal strength, was to employ him to lie a-bed all day and hatch 
turkey’s eggs. Tlie least allusion to this rumor used to drive him 
well-nigh frantic, and the fatal termination of his duel with young 
Crofts, which began in wanton mirth, and ended in bloodshed, made 
men more coy than tlr^y had formerly been, of making the fiery little 
hero the subject of their raillery. 

While Peveril did the drudgery of the apartment, the dwarf re- 
mained much at his ease, caroling in the manner we have described; 
but when he beheld Julian attempting the task ot the cook. Sir 
Geoffrey Hudson sprung from the stool on which he sat en signor, 
at the risk of breaking both his guitar and his neck, exclaiming, 
“ That he would rather prepare breakfast every morning betwixt 
this and the day of judgment, than commit a task of such conse- 
quence to an inexperienced bungler liRe his companion.” 

The young man gladly resigned his task to the splenetic little 
knight, and only smiled at his resentment when he added, that, to be 
but a mortal of middle stature, Julian was as stupid as a giant. 
Leaving the dwarf to prepare the meal after his own pleasure, Pev- 
eril employed himself in measuring the room with his eyes on every 
side, and in endeavoring to discover some private entrance such as 
might admit his midnight visitant, and perhaps could be employed 
in case of need for effecting his own escape. The floor next engaged 
a scrutiny equally minute, but more successful. 

Close % his own pallet, and dropped in such a manner that he 
must have seen it sooner but for the hurry with which he obeyed the 
summons of the impatient dwarf, lay a slip of paper, sealed, and 
directed with the initial letters J. P. , which seemed to ascertain that 
it was addressed to himself. He took the opportunity of opening it 
while the soup was in the very moment ot projection, and the full 
attention of his companion w^as occupied by what he, in common with 


340 


PEVEETL OF THE PEAK. 


wiser and taller men, considered as one of the principal occupations 
of life; so that, without incurring his observation, or awaking his 
curiosity, Julian had the opportunity to read as follows: 

“ Rash and infatuated as you are, there is one who would forfeit 
much to stand betwixt you and your fate. You are to-morrow to be 
removed to the Tower, where your life cannot be assured for a single 
day; for, during the few hours 5*011 have been in London, 5 "OU have 
provoked a resentment which is not easily slaked. There is but 
one chance for 5 mu— renounce A. B. — think no more of her. If that 
be impossible, think of her but as one whom Amu can never see again. 
It your heart can resolve to give up an attachment which it should 
never have entertained, and which it would be madness to cherish 
longer, make your acquiescence in this condition known by putting 
on jmur hat a white band, or white feather, or knot of ribbon of the 
same color, whichever you may most easily come by. A boat will, 
in that case, run, as if by accident, on board of that which is to con- 
vey you to the Tower. Do you in the confusion jump overboard, 
and swim to the Bouthwark side of the Thames. Friends will attend 
the] e to secure 5 mur escape, and you will find yourself with one 
who will rather lose character and life, than that a hair of your head 
should fall to the ground; but who, if you reject the warning, can 
only think of you as of the fool who perishes in his folly. May 
Heaven guide 5 *ou to a sound judgment of your condition! So prays 
one who would be 5 mur friend, if you pleased, 

“Unknown.” 

The Tower!— it was a word of terror, even more so than a civil 
prison; for how man}^ passages to death did that dark structure pre- 
sent! The severe executions which it had'witnessed in preceding 
reigns, were not perhaps more numerous than the secret murders 
which had taken place within its w alls ; yet Peveril did not a moment 
hesitate on the part which he had to perform. “ 1 will share ni}’’ 
father’s fate,” he said; “ 1 thought but of him when they brought 
me hither; 1 will think of nothing else when the}" convey me to 5 mn- 
der still more dreadful place of confinement; it is his, and it is but 
meet that it should be his son’s. And thou, Alice Bridgenorth, the 
day that 1 renounce thee, may 1 be held alike a traitor and a dastard! 
Go, false adviser, and share the fate of seducers and heretical 
teachers!” 

He could not help uttering this last expression aloud, as he threw 
the billet into the fire, with a vehemence which made the dwarf start 
with surprise. “ What say 5 mu of burning herelicts, young man?” 
he exclaimed; “ by" my faith, your zeal must be w^armer than mine, 
if you talk on such a subject when the heretics are the prevailing 
number. May 1 meaBure'six feet without my shoes, but the heretics 
would have the best of it it we came to that work. BeAvare of such 
words.” . 

^ “ Too late to bew"are of words spoken and heard, ” said the turnkey, 
who, opening the door with unusual precautions to avoid noise, iiad 
stolen unperceived into tire room ; “ however. Master Peveril has be- 
haved like a gentleman, and 1 am no tale-bearer, on condition hQ 
will consider 1 have had trouble in his matters.” 


PEVEEIL OP THE PEAK. 


841 

Julian liad no alternative but to take the fellow’s hint and admin- 
ister a bribe, with ■which Master Clink was so well satisfied that he 
exclaimed, “ It went to his heart to take leave ol such a kind-natured 
gentleman, and that he could have turned the key on him for twenty 
years with pleasure. But the Jrest friends must part. ” 

“ 1 am to'be removed, then?” said Julian. 

“ Ay, truly, master, the warrant is come from the council.” 

“ To convey me to the Tower?” 

“ Whew!” exclaimed the officer of the law— “ who the devil told 
you that? But since you do know it, there is no harm to say ay. 
So make yourself ready to move immediately; and first hold out 
your dew-beaters till 1 take off the darbies.” 

“Is that usual?” said Peveril, stretching out his feet as the fellow 
directed, while his fetters were unlocked. 

“Why, ay, master, these fetters belong to the keeper; they are 
not a-going to send them to the lieutenant, 1 trow. No, no, the 
warders must bring their own gear with them; they get none here, 1 
promise them. Nevertheless, it your honor hath a fancy to go in 
fetters, as thinking it maj’’ move compassion of your case — ” 

“ I have no intention to make my case seem worse than it is,” 
said Julian; whilst at the same time it crossed his mind that his 
anonymous coriespondent must be well acquainted both with his 
own personal habits, since the letter proposed a plan ot escape which 
could only be executed by a bold swimmer, and with the fashions of 
the prison, since it was foreseen that he would not be ironed on his 
passage to the Tower. The turnkey’s next speech made him carry 
conjecture still further. 

“ There is nothing in life 1 -would not do for so brave a guest,” 
said Clink; “ 1 would nab one of my wife’s ribbons for you, if your 
honor had the fancy to mount the -w^hite flag in your beaver.” 

“ To what good purpose?” said Julian, shortly connecting, as was 
natural, the man’s proposed civility with the advice given and the 
signal prescribed in the letter. 

“ Kay, to no good purpose 1 know of,” said the turnkey; “ only 
it is the fashion to seem white and harmless— a sort of token of not- 
guiltiness, as 1 ma}’' say, which folks desire to show the world 
whether they be truly guilty or not ; butl cannot say thal guiltiness 
or not-guiltiness argufies much saving they be words in the vardict.” 

“ Strange,” thought Peveril, although the man seemed to speak 
quite naturallj’-, and without any double meaning, “ strange that all 
should apparently combine to realize the plan of escape, could 1 but 
give my consent to it! And had 1 not better consent? Whoever 
does so much for me muk wish me well, and a well--v\’isher would 
never enforce the unjust conditions on which 1 am required to con- 
sent to my liberation.” 

But this misgiving of his resolution was but for a moment. He 
speedily recollected, that whoever aided him m escaping, must be 
necessarily exposed to great risk, and had a right to name the stipu- 
lation on which he was willing to incur it. He also recollected thal 
falsehood is equally base, whether expressed in words or in dumb 
show; and that he should lie as fiatly by using the signal agreed upon 
in evidence of his renouncing Alice Bridgenorth, as he would in di- 


342 PEVETIIL OF THE PEAK. 

rect terms if he made such renunciation without the purpose of 
abiding by it. 

“ If you would oblige me,” he said to the turnkey, “ let me have 
a piece of black silk or crape for the purpose you mention.” 

“ Of crape,” said the fellow; “ what should that signity? Why, 
the bien morts, who bing out to touf at you,* will think you a 
chimney-sweeper on Mayday. ” 

‘‘ It will show my settled sorrow,” said Julian, “ as well as my 
determined resolution.” 

“ As you will, sir,” answered the fellow; “ I’ll provide you with a 
black rag of some kind or other. So, now, let us be moving.” 

Julian intimated his readiness to attend him, and proceeded to bid 
farewell to his late companion, the stout Geoffrey Hudson. The 
parting was not without emotion on both sides, more particularly on 
that of the poor little man, who had taken a particular liking to the 
companion of whom he was now about to be deprived. ‘ ‘ Fare ye 
well,” he said, “ my young friend,” taking Julian’s hand in both 
his. own uplifted palms, in which action he somewhat resembled the 
attitude of a sailor pulling a rope overhead— “ Many in my situation 
would think himself wronged, as a soldier and servant of the king’s 
chamber, in seeing you removed to a more honorable prison than 
that which I am limited unto. But, 1 thank God, 1 grudge you not 
the Tower, nor the rocks of Scilly, nor even Carisbrooke Castle, 
though the latter was graced with the captivity of m}^ blessed and 
martyred master. Go where j'^ou will, 1 wish you all the distinction 
of an honorable prison-house, and a safe and speedy deliverance in 
God’s own time. For myself, my race is near a close, and that be- 
cause 1 fall a martyr to the over-tenderness of my own heart. There 
is a circumstance, good Master Julian Peveril, which should have 
been yours, had Providence peimitted our further intimacy, but it 
fits not the present hour. Go then, my friend, and bear vvitness in 
life and death, tliat Geoffrey Hudson scorns the insults and persecu- 
tions of fortune, as he would despise, and has often despised, the 
mischievous pranks of an overgrown schoolboy.” 

So saying, he turned awaj^ and hid his face with his little hand- 
kerchief, while Julian felt toward him that tragi-coniic sensation 
which makes us pity the object which excites it, not the less that we 
are somewhat inclined to laugh amid our sjonpathy. The jailer 
made him a signal, which Peveril obeyed, leaving the dwarf to dis- 
consolate solitude. 

As Julian followed the keeper through the various windings of 
this penal labyrinth, the man observed, that “ he was a rum fellow, 
that little Sir Geoffrey, and, for gallantry, a perfect Cock of Bantam, 
for as old as he was. There was a certain gay wench,” he .said, 
“ that had hooked him; but what she could make of him, save she 
carried him to Smithfield, and took money for him, as for a motion 
of puppets, it was,” he said, ” hard to gather.” 

Encouraged by this opening, Julian asked if his attendant kne*v 
why his prison was changed. “ To teach j'Ou to become a king’s 
post without commission,” answered the fellow. 

He stopped in his tattle as they approached that formidable central 

* The smart girls, who tm’n out to look at you. 


PEVERTL OF THE PEAK. 


343 

point, in which lay couched on his leathern elbow-chair the fat com- 
mander of the fortress, stationed apparently for ever in the midst of 
his citadel, as the huge Boa is sometimes said to lie stretched as a 
guard upon the subterranean treasures of Eastern Rajahs. This 
overgrown man of authority eyed Julian wistfully and sullenly, as 
the miser the guinea which he must part with, or the hungry mastiff 
the food whfch is earned to another kennel. He growled to him- 
self as he turnea the leaves of his ominous register, iii order to make 
the necessary entry respecting the removal of his prisoner. “ To 
the Tower — to the Tower— ay, ay, all must to the Tower— that’s the 
fashion of it— free Britons to a military prison, as if Ave had neither 
bolts nor chains here! 1 hope parliament will have it up, this 
Towering work, that’s all. Well, the youngster will take no good 
by the change, and that is one comfort.” 

Having finished at once his official act of registration, and his 
soliloquy, he made a signal to his assistants to remove Juliau, who 
was led along the same stern passages which he had traversed upon 
his entrance, to the gate of the prison, whence a coach, escorted by 
• two officers of justice, conveyed him to the water- side. 

A boat here waited him, with four warders of the Tower, to whose 
custody he was formally resigned by his late attendants. Clink, 
however, the turnkey, w ith whom he was more especially acquainted, 
did not take leave of him without furnishing him Avith the piece ot 
black crape which he requested. Peveril fixed it on his hal amid 
the whispers of his new guardians. ‘‘ The gentleman is in a hurry 
to go into mourning,” said one; “ mayhap he had better wait till he 
has cause.” 

“ Perhaps others may wear mourning for him, ere he can mourn 
for any one,” answered another of these functionaries. 

Yet, notwithstanding the tenor of these whispers, their behavior 
to their prisoner was more respectful than he had experienced from 
his former keepers, and might be termed a sullen civility. The 
ordinary officers of the law Avere in ge^ieral rude, as having to do 
with felons of every description, whereas these men were only em- 
ployed with persons accused of state crimes — men who were from 
birth and circumstances usually entitled to expect, and able to re- 
ward, decent usage. 

The change of keepers passed unnoticed by Julian, as did the gay 
and busy scene presented by the broad and beautiful river on which 
he was iiow launched. A hundred boats shot past them, bearing par- 
ties intent on business, or on pleasure. Julian only viewed them 
with the stern hope, that Avhoever had endeavored to bribe him from 
his fidelity by the hope of freedom, might see, from the color ot tlic 
'badge which he had assumed, how determined he was to resist the 
temptation presented to him. 

It was about high water, and a stout wherry came up the river, 
with sail and oar, so directly upon that in wliich J ulian Avas em- 
barked, that it seemed as if likely to run her aboard. “ Get your 
carbines ready,” cried the principal warder to his assistants.. 
‘‘ What the devil can these scouudiels mean?” 

But the crew in the other boat seemed to have perceived their 
error, for they suddenly altered their course, and struck off into the 


PEYERIL OE THE PEAK. 


344 

middle stream, while a torrent of mutual abuse was exchanged be- 
twixt them and the boat whose course the}" had threatened to im- 
pede. 

“ The Unknown has kept his faith,” said Julian to himself; ” 1 
too have kept mine.” 

It even seemed to him, as the boats neared each other, that he 
heard, from the other wherry, something like a skilled scream or 
groan; and when the momentary bustle was over, he asked the 
warder who sat next him, what boat that was. 

” Men-of -war’s men, on a frolic, 1 suppose,” answered the warder. 
“ 1 know no one else would be so impudent as run foul of the 
king’s boat; for I am sure the fellow put the helm up on purpose. 
But mayhap you, sir, know more of the matter than I do.” 

This insinuation effectually prevented Julian from putting further 
questions, and he remained silent until the boat came under the 
dusky bastions of the Tower, The tide carried them up under a 
dark and lowering arch, closed at the upper end by the well-known 
Traitor’s gate,* formed like a wicket of huge intersecting bars of 
wood, through which might be seen a dim and imperfect view of 
soldiers nnd warders upon duty, and of the steep ascending causeway 
which leads up from the river into the interior of the fortress. By 
this gate — and it is the well-known circumstance which assigned its 
name — those accused of state crimes were usually committed to the 
Tower. The Thames afforded a secret and silent mode of convey- 
ance for transporting thither such whose fallen fortunes might move 
the commiseration, or whose popular qualities might excite the sym- 
pathy, ot the public; and even where no cause for especial secrecy 
existed, the peace of the city was undisturbed by the tumult attend- 
ing the passage of the prisoner and his guards tlirough the most fre- 
quented streets. 

Yet this custom, however recommended by state policy, must 
have often struck chill lipon the heart of the criminal, who thus, 
stolen, as it were, out of society, reached the place of his confine- 
ment, without encountering even one glance of compassion on the 
road; and as, from under the dusky arch, he landed on those flinty 
steps, worn by many a footstep anxious as his own, against which 
the tide lapped fitfully with small successive waves, and thence 
looked forward to the steep ascent into a Gothic stale prison, and 
backward to such part of the river as the low -browed vault suffered 
to become visible, he must often have felt that he was leaving day- 
light, hope, and life itself, behind him. 

While the warder’s challenge was made and answered, Peveril 
endeavored to obtain information from his conductors where he was 
likely to be confined; but the answ^er was brief and general — 
“ Where the lieutenant should direct.” 

” Could he not be permitted to share the imprisonment of his fa- 
ther, Sir Geoffrey Peveril?” He forgot not, on this occasion, to add 
the surname of his house. 

The warder, an old man of respeetable appearance, stared, as if at 
the extravagance of the demand, and said bluntly, ‘ ‘ It is im- 
possible.” 


* See Fortunes of Nigel, Note Y. 


PEVEBIL OP THE PEAK. 345 

“ At least/’ said Peveril, “ show me where my father is confined, 
that 1 may look upon the walls which separate us.” 

” Young gentleman,” said the senior warder, shakimr his gray 
head, ” 1 am sorry for you; but asking questions will do you no 
service. In this place we know nothing ot fathers and sons,” 

Yet chance seemed, in a few minutes afterward, to offer Peveril 
that satisfaction which the rigor of his keepers was disposed to deny 
to him. As he^ was conveyed up the steep passage which leads un- 
der wj^t is called the Wakefield Tower, a female voice, in a tone 
wherein grief and joy were indescribably mixed, exclaimed, ‘‘My 
son! My dear son!” 

Even those who guarded Julian seemed softened by a tone of such 
acute feeling. They slackened their pace. They almost paused to 
permit him to look up toward the casement from which the sounds 
of maternal agony proceeded; but the aperture was so narrow, and 
so closely grated, that nothing \ras visible save a white female hand, 
which grasped one of those rusty barricadoes, as if for supporting 
the person within, while another streamed a white handkerchief, 
and then let it fall. The casement was instantly deserted. 

” Givejt me,” said Julian to the officer who lifted the handker- 
chief; “ it is perhaps a mother’s last gift.” 

The old warder lifted the napkin, and looked at it with the jeal- 
ous minuteness of one who is accustomed to detect secret con espond- 
ence in tlie most trifling acts of intercourse. 

” There may be writing on it with invisible ink,” said one of his 
comrades. 

” It is wetted, but 1 think it is only with tears,” answered the 
senior. ” 1 cannot keep it from the poor jmung gentleman.” 

” Ah, Master Coleby,” said his comrade, in a gentle tone of re- 
proach, ” you would have been wearing a better coat than a yeo- 
man’s to-day, had it not been for your tender heart.” 

‘‘ It signifies little,” said old Coleby, ” while my heart is true to 
my king, what 1 feel in discharging my duty, or what coat keeps 
my old bosom from the cold weather. ' ’ 

Peveril, meanwhile, folded in his breast the token of his mother’s 
affection which chance had favored him with; and when placed in 
the small and solitary chamber which he was told to consider as his 
own during his residence in the Tower, he was soothed even to 
weeping by this trifling circumstance, which he could not help con- 
sidering as an omen that his unfortunate house was not entirely de- 
serted by Providence. 

But the thoughts and occurrences of a prison are too uniform for 
a narrative, and we must now convey our readers into a more bus- 
tling scene. 


CHAPTER XXXYll. 

Henceforth ’tis done— Fortune and I are friends; 

And I must live, for Buckingham commends. 

Pope. 

The spacious mansion of the Duke of Buckingham, with the 
demesne oelonging to it, originally bore the name of York House, 
and occupied a large portion of the ground adjacent to the Savoy. 


346 PEVEEIL OE THE PEAK. 

This had been laid out by the munificence of his father, the favor- 
ite of Charles the First, in a most splendid manner, so as almost to 
rival Whitehall itself. But during the increasing rage for building 
new streets, and the creating of almost an additional town, in order 
to connect London and Westminster, this ground had become of 
very great value; and the second Duke of Buckingham, who was at 
once fond of scheming, and needy of money, had agreed to a plan 
1 lid before him by some adventurous architect, for converting the 
extensive grounds around his palace into those streets, lanes, and 
courts, which still perpetuate his name and titles; though those who 
live in Buckingham Street, Duke Street, Villiers’ Street, or in 
Of-alley (for even that connecting particle is locally commemorat- 
ed), probably think seldom of the memory of the witty, eccentric, 
and licentious George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, whose titles 
are preserved in the names of their residence and its neighborhood. 

This building-plan the duke had entered upon with all the eager- 
ness which he usually attached to nevelty. His gardens were de- 
stroyed -his pavilions leveled — his splendid stables demolished — the 
whole pomp of his suburban demesne laid waste, cumbered with 
ruins, and intersected with the foundations of new buildings and 
(icllars, and the process of leveling different lines for th? intended 
streets. But the undertaking, although it proved afterward both 
lucrative and successful, met with a check at the outset, parti}’- from 
want of the necessary funds, partly from the impatient and mercu- 
rial temper of the duke, which soon carried him off in pursuit of 
some more new object. So that, though much was demolished, 
very little, in comparison, was reared up in the stead, and nothing 
was completed. The principal x>art of the ducal mansion still re- 
mained uninjured; but the demesne in which it stood bore a strange 
analogy to the irregular mind of its noble owner. Here stood a 
beautiful group of exotic trees and shrubs, the remnant of the gar- 
den, amid yawning common sewers and heaps of rubbish. In one 
place an old tower threatened to fall upon the spectafor; and in 
another, he ran the risk of being swallowed up by a modern vault. 
Grandeur of conception could be discovered in the undertaking, but 
■w^as almost every where marred by povcrtj^ or negligence of execu- 
tion. In short, the wdiole place was the true emblem of an under- 
standing and talents run to waste, and become more dangerous than 
advantageous to society, by the want of steady principle, and the 
improvidence of the possessor. 

There were men who took a different view of the duke’s purpose 
in permitting his mansion to be thus sun’ounded, and his demesne 
occupied by modern buildings -udiicb were incomplete, and ancient 
which were but half demolished. They alleged, that, engaged as 
he was in so many mysteries of love and of poiitics, and having the 
character of the most daring and dangerous intriguer of his time, 
his grace found it convenient to surround himself with this ruinous 
arena, into which officers of justice could not penetiate without 
some difficulty and hazard; and which might afford, upon occasion, 
a safe and secret shelter for such tools as were fit for desperate en- 
terprises, and a private and unobserved mode of access to those 
whom he might have any special reason for receiving in secret. 

Leaving Peveril in the Tower, we must once more convey our 


rEVEUlL OF THE PEAK. 


347 

readers to the levee of the duke, who, on the morning of Julian’s 
transference to that fortress, tlius addressed his master-in- chief, and 
principal attendant: — “ 1 have been so pleased with your conduct in 
this matter, Jerningham, that it Old Nick were to arise in our pres- 
ence, and offer me his best imp as a familiar in thy room, 1 would 
hold it but a poor compliment.” 

A legion of imps,” said Jerningham bowing, ” could not have 
been more busy than 1 in your grace’s service; but if your grace 
will permit me to say so, your whole plan was well-nigh marred by 
your not returning home till last night or rather this morning.” 

“ x\nd why, 1 pray you, sage Master Jerningham,” said his grace, 
” should i have returned home in an instant sooner than my pleas- 
ure and convenience served?” 

“ Nay, my lord duke,” replied the attendant, “ 1 know not; only, 
when you sent us word by Empson, in ChilRnch’s apartment, to 
command us to make sure of the girl at any rate, and. at all risks, 
you said you would be here so soon as you could get freed of the 
king.” 

” Freed of the king, you rascal! What sort of phrase is that?” 
demanded the duke. 

“It was Empson who used it, my lord, as coming from your 
grace.” 

“There is much very fit for my grace to say, that misbecomes 
such mouths as Empson’s or yours to repeat,” answered the duke, 
haughtily, but instantly resumed his tone of familiarity, for his 
humor was as capricious as his pursuits. “ But 1 know what thou 
wouldst have; first, your wisdom would know what became of me 
since thou hadst my commands at Chifiinch’s; and next, your valor 
would fain sound another flourish of trumpets on thine own most 
artificial retreat, leaving thy comrade in the hands of the Philis- 
tines.” 

“ May it please your grace,” said Jerningham, “ 1 did but retreat 
for the preservation of the baggage.” 

“ What! do you play at crambo with me?” said the duke. “1 
would have you know that the common parish fool should be 
whipt, were he to attempt to pass pun or quodlibet as a genuine 
jest, even amongst ticket-porters and hackney chairmen.” 

“ And yet 1 have heard your grace indulge in tht jeu de mots” 
answered the attendant, 

“ Sirrah Jerningham,” answered the patron, “ discard thy mem- 
ory, or keep it under correction, else it will hamper thy rise in the 
world. Thou mayst perchance have seen me also have a fancy to 
play at trap ball, or to kiss a serving- wench, or to guzzle ale and 
eat toasted cheese in a porterly whimsy; but is it fitting thou 
shouldst remember such follies? No more on’t. Hark you; how 
came the long lubberly fool Jenkins, being a master of the noble 
science of defense, to suffer himself to be run through the body so 
simply by a rustic swain like this same Peveril?” 

“ Please your grace, this same Corydon is no such novice. 1 saw 
the onset; and, excepting on one hand, I never saw a sword man- 
aged with such life, grace, and facility.” 

“ Ay, indeed?” said the duke, taking his own sheathed rapier in 
his hand, “ 1 could not have thought that, 1 am somewhat rusted, 


PEYEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


348 

and have need of breathing. Peveril is a name of note. ' As well 
go to the Barns-elms or behind JVlontagu House with hirn as with 
another. His father a rumored plotter, too. The x)ublic would 
have noted it in me as becoming a zealous Protestant. Needful 1 
do something to maintain my good name in the city, to atone for 
non-attendance on prayer and preaching. But your Laertes is fast 
in the Fleet; and 1 suppose his blundering blockhead of an antago- 
nist is dead or dying.” 

“Recovering, my lord, on the contrary,” replied Jerningham; 
“ the blade fortunately avoided his vitals.” 

“ D— n his vitals!” answered the duke. “ Tell him to postpone 
his recovery, or 1 will pul him to death in earnest.” 

“ 1 will caution his surgeon,” said Jerningham, “ which will an- 
swer equally well. ” 

“Do so; and tell him he had better be on his OR^n deathbed as 
cure his patient till 1 send him notice. That young fellow must be 
let loose again at no rate.” 

“ There is little danger,” said the attendant. “ I hear some of the 
witnesses have got their net flung over him on account of some mat- 
ters down in the north; and that he is to be translated to the Tower 
for that, and for some letters of the Countess of Derby, as rumor 
goes.” 

“ Td the Tower let him go, and get out as he can,” replied the 
duke; “ and when you hear he is fast there, let the fencing fellow 
recover as fast as the surgeon and he can mutually settle it.” 

The duke, having said this, took two or three turns in the apart- 
ment, and appeared to be in deep thought. His attendant waited 
the issue of his meditations with patience, being well aware that 
such moods, during which his mind was strongly directed in one 
point, were never of so long duration with his patron as to prove a 
severe burden to his own patience. 

Accordingly, after the silence of seven or eight minutes, the duke 
broke through it, taking from the toilet a large silk purse, which 
seemed full of gold. “ Jerningham,” he said, “ thou art a faithful 
fellow, and it would be sin not to cherish thee. 1 beat the king at 
j\iall on his bold deflance. The honor is enough for mc; and thou, 
my boy, Shalt have the winnings.” 

Jerningham pocketed the purse with due acknowledgments. 

“ Jerningham,” his grace continued, “ 1 know you blame me for 
changing my iflans loo often: and on my soul 1 have heard you so 
learned on the subject, that 1 have become of your opinion, and 
have been vexed at myself for two or three hours together for not 
sticking as constantly to one object, as doubtless 1 shall, when age 
(touching his forehead) shall make this same weather-cock too rusty 
to turn with the changing breeze. But as yet, while 1 have spirit 
and action, let it whirl like the vane at the mast-head, which teaches 
the pilot how to steer his course; and when 1 shift mine, think 1 am 
bound to follow fortune and not to control her.” 

“ 1 can understand nothing from all this, please your grace,” re- 
plied Jerningham, “ save that you have been plensed to change some 
pui posed measures, and Ihink that you have profited by doing so.” 

“You shall judge yourself,” replied the duke. “1 have seen 
the Duchess of Portsmouth. You start. It is true^ by Heaven! X 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


349 

have seen her, and from sworn enemies we have become sworn 
friends. The treaty between s\ich high and miglity powers had 
some weighty articles; besides, 1 had a French negotiator to deal 
with; so that you will alloA^ a few hours’ absence was but a neces- 
sary interval to make up our matters of diplomacy.” 

“Your grace astonishes me,” said Jeiningham. ‘‘Christian’s 
plan of supplanting the great lady is then entirely abandoned? 1 
thought you had but desired to have the fair successor here, in order 
to carry it on under your own management.” 

“ 1 forget what 1 meant at the time,’ said the duke; “ unless that 
1 was resolved she should not jilt me as she did the good-natured 
man of royalty; and so 1 am still determined, since you put me in 
mind of the fair Dowsabelle. But 1 had a contrite note from the 
duchess while we were at the Mall. 1 went to see her, and found 
her a perfect ISIiobe. On my soul, in spite of red eyes and swelled 
features, and disheveled hair, there are, after all, Jernipgham, some 
women, who do, as the poets say, look lovely in aflliction. Out 
came the cause; and with such humility, such penitence, such 
throwing herself on my mercy (she the proudest devil, too, in the 
whole court), that 1 must have had heart of steel to resist it all. In 
short, Cldffinch in a drunken fit had played the babbler, and let 
young Saville into our intrigue. Saville plays the rogue, and in- 
forms the duchess by a messenger, who luckily came a little late 
into the market. She learned, too, being a very devil for intelli- 
gence, that there had been some jarring between the master and me 
about this new Phillis; and that 1 was'^most likely to catch the bird 
— as any one may see who looks on us both. It must have been 
Empson who fluted all this into her grace’s ear; and thinking she 
saw how her ladyship and 1 could hunt in couples, she entreats me 
to break Christian’s scheme, and keep the wench out of the king’s 
sight, especially if she were such a rare piece of perfection as fame 
has reported her. ” 

“ And your grace has promised her your hand to uphold the in- 
fluence which you have so often threatened to ruin?” said Jerning- 
ham. 

” Ay, Jerningham; my turn was as much served when she seemed 
to own herself in my power, and cry me m^rcy. And observe, it is 
all one to me by which ladder 1 climb into the king’s cabinet. That 
of Portsmouth is ready fixed — better ascend by it than fling it down 
to put up another — 1 hate all unnecessary trouble.” 

” And Christian?” said Jerningham. 

“ May go to the devil for a self-conceited ass. One pleasure of 
this twist of intrigue is, to revenge me of that villain, who thought 
himself so essential, that, by Heaven! he forced himself on my 
privacy, and lectured me like a schoolboy. Hang the cold-blooded 
In’pocritical vennin I If he mutters, 1 will have his nose slit as wide 
as Coventry’s.* Hark ye, is the colonel come?” 

” 1 expect him every moment, your grace.” 

* The ill usap:e of Sir John Coventry by some of the Life Guardsmen, in re- 
venge of something said in Parliament concerning the King’s theatrical amours, 
gave rise to what was called Coventry’s Act, against cutting and maiming the 
■person. 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


B50 

“ Send him up when he arrives,” said the duke. “ Wh}^ do you 
stand looking at me? What would you have?” 

” Your grace’s direction respecting the young lady,” said Jerning- 
ham. 

“ Odd zooks,” said the duke, ” 1 had totally forgotten her. Is 
she very tearful? Exceedingly afflicted?” 

” She does not take on so violently as 1 have seen some do,” said 
Jerningham; “but for a strong, firm, concentrated indignation, 1 
have seen none to match her. ” 

“ Well, we will permit her to cool. 1 will not face the affliction 
of a second fair one immediately. 1 am tired of sniveling, and 
swelled ej^es, and blubbered cheeks, for some time; and, moreover, 
must husband my powers of consolation. Begone and send the 
colonel.” 

“Will your grace permit me one other question?” demanded his 
confidant. • 

“ Ask what thou wilt, Jerningham, and then begone'.” 

“ Your grace has determined do give up Christian,” said the at- 
tendant. “ May 1 ask what becomes of the kingdom of Man?” 

“Forgotten, as 1 have a Christian soul!” said the duke; “as 
much forgotten as if 1 had never nourished that scheme of royal 
ambition. D — n it, we must knit up the raveled skein of that in- 
trigue. Yet it is but a miserable rock, not worth the trouble 1 have 
been bestowins: on it; and for a kingdom— it has a sound ind-eed; 
but, in reality, I might as well stick a cock-chicken’s feather into 
my hat, and call it a plume. Besides, now 1 think upon it, it would 
scarce be honorable to sweep that petty royalty out of Derby’s pos- 
session. 1 wmn a thousand pieces of the young earl wdien he w'as 
last here, and suffered him to hang about me at court. 1 question if 
the whole revenue of his kingdom is wmrtli twice as much. Easily 
1 could win it of him, were he here, with less trouble than it would 
cost me to carry on these troublesome intrigues of Christian’s.” 

“ If 1 may be permitted to say so, please your grace,” answered 
Jerningham, “ although your grace is perhaps somewhat liable to 
change your mind, no man in England can aftord better reasons for 
doing so.” 

“ I think so myself, Jerningham,” said the duke; “ and it may 
be it is one reason f'.r my changing. One likes to vindicate his own 
conduct, and to find out fine reasons for doing what one has a mind 
to. And now, once again, begone. Or, hark ye— hark ye — 1 shall 
need some loose gold. You may leave the purse 1 gave you; and 1 
will give you an order for as much, and twm years’ interest, on old 
Jacob Doublefce. ” 

“As your grace pleases,” said Jerningham, his whole stock of 
complaisance scarcely able to conceal his mortification at exchang- 
ing for a distant order, of a kind which of late had not been very 
regularly honored, the sunny contents of the purse which had actu- 
ally been in his pocket. Secretly but solemnly did he make a vow, 
that two years’ interest alone should not be'thc compensation tor 
this involuntary exchange in the form of his remuneration. 

As the discontented dependent left the apartment, he met, at the 
head of the grand staircase, Christian himself, who, exercising the 
freedom of an ancient friend of the house, was making his way, 


351 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 

iinannoimced, to tlie duke’s dressing apartment. Jerningliara, con- 
jecturing that his visit at this crisis would be anything but well- 
timed, or well-taken, endeavored to avert his purpose, by asserting 
that the duke was indisposed, and in his bed-chamber; and this he 
said so loud that his master might hear him, and, if he pleased, 
realize the apology which he oUered in his name, by retreating into 
the bedroom as his last sanctuary, and drawing the bolt against in- 
trusion. 

But, far from adopting a stratagem to which he had had recourse 
on former occasions, in order to avoid those wdio came upon him, 
though at an appointed hour, and upon business of importance, 
Buckingham called, in a loud voice, from his dressing apartment, 
commanding his chamberlain instantly to introduce his good friend 
Master Christian, and censuring him for hesitating for an instant to 
do so, • 

“ Now%” thought Jerningham within himself, “ if Christian knew 
the duke as well as 1 do, he would sooner stand the leap of a lion, 
like the London ’prentice bold, than venture on my master at this 
moment, who is even now in a humor nearly as dangerous as the 
animal,” 

He then ushered Christian into his master’s presence, taking care 
to post himself within ear-shot of the door. 


CHAPTER XXXVlll. 

“ Speak not of nieeness, when there’s chance of wreck,” 

The captain said, as ladies writhed their neck 
To see the dying dolphin flap the deck: 

“ If we go down, on us these gentry sup ; 

We dine upon them, if we haul them up, 

Wise men applaud us when we eat the eaters, 

As the devil laughs when keen folks cheat the cheaters.” 

The Sea Voyage. 

There was nothing in the duke’s manner toward Christian which 
could have conveyed to that latter personage, experienced as he was 
in the worst possible ways of the world, that Buckingham would, at 
that particular moment, rather have seen the devil than himself; 
unless it was that Buckingham's reception of him, being rather ex- 
traordinarily courteous toward so old an acquaintance, might have 
excited some degree of suspicion. 

Having escaped with some difficulty from the vague region of 
general compliments, which bears the same relation to that of busi- 
ness that Milton informs us. the Limbo Fatrum has to the sensible 
and material earth, Christian asked his grace of Buckingham, with 
the same blunt plainness with which he usually veiled a very deep 
and artificial character, whether he had lately seen Chifflnch or his 
helpmate? 

.‘‘Neither of them lately,” answered Buckingham. ‘‘Have not 
you waited on them yourself? 1 thought you would have been 
more anxious about the great scheme.” 

“ 1 have called once and again,” said Christian, “ but 1 can gain 
no access to the sight of that important couple. 1 begin to be afraid 
they are paTering with me,” 

” Which, by the welkin and its stars, you would not be slow in 


352 PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 

avenging, Master Christian. 1 know your puritanical principles on 
that point well,” said the duke. ” Revenge may be well said to be 
sweet, when so many grave and wise men are ready to exchange for 
it all the sugar plums which pleasures offer to the poor sinful peo- 
ple of the wWld, besides the revei’sion of those which they talk of 
expecting in the way of post obit.’ \ 

“ Toil may jest, my lord,” said Christian, '“but still— 

“ But still you will be revenged on Chillinch, and his little com- 
modious companion. And yet the task may be difficult — Chiffinch 
has so many ways of obliging his master — his little woman is such a 
convenient pretty sort of a screen, and has such winning little ways 
of her own, that, in faith, in your case, 1 would not meddle with 
them. What is this refusing their door, man? W'e all do it to our 
])est friends now and then, as well as to duns and duj] company.” 

” If your gi'ace is in a humor of rambling thus wildly in your 
talk.” said Christian, “ you know my old facuU 3 ’ot patience — 1 can 
wait till it be your pleasure to talk more seriously.” 

“Seriously!” said his grace — “Wherefore not? 1 only wait to 
know what your serious business may be. ” 

“ In a word, my lord, from Chiffinch’s refusal to see me, and 
some vain calls which 1 have made at your grace’s mansion, 1 am 
afraid either that our plan has miscanied, or that there is some in- 
tention to exclude me from the further conduct of the matter.” 
Christian pronounced these words with considerable emphasis. 

“ That 'were folly, as well as treachery,’ returned the duke, “ to 
exclude from the spoil the very engineer who conducted the attack. 
But hark ye, Christian — lam sorry to tell bad news without prepara- 
tion ; but as you insist on knowing the w'orst, and are not ashamed 
to suspect your best friends, out it must come*— Your niece left 
Chiffinch’s house the morning before yesterday.” 

Christian staggered, as if he had received a severe blow; and the 
blood ran to his face in such a current of passion, that the duke con- 
cluded he was struck with an apoplexy. But, exerting the extraor- 
dinary command which he could maintain under the most trying 
circumstances, he said, with a voice, the composure of which had 
an unnatural contrast with the alteration of his countenance, “ Am 
1 to conclude, that in leaving the protection of the roof in which 1 
placed her, the girl has found shelter under tliat of your grace?” 

“ Sir,” replied BucRiugham, gravely, “ the supposition does my 
gallantry more credit than it deserves. ” 

“ Oh, my Lord Duke,” answered Christian, “lam not one whom 
you can impose on by this species of courtly jargon. 1 know of 
w'hat y^our grace is capable; and that to gratify the caprice of a mo- 
ment, you would not hesitate to disappoint even the schemes at 
which you yourself have labored most busily. Suppose this jest 
played off. Take your laugh at those simple precautions by which 
1 intended to protect your grace’s interest, as well as that of others. 
Let us know the extent of your frolic, and consider how far its con- 
sequences can be repaired.” 

“ On my word, Christian,” said the duke, laughing, “ you are the 
most obliging of uncles and of guardians. Let your niece pass 
through as many adventures as Boccaccio’s bride of the King of 


PEYERTL OF THE PEAK. 353 

Garba, you care not. Pure or soiled, she will still make the foot- 
stool of your fortune. ’ ^ 

An Indian proverb says, that the dart of contempt will even pierce 
through the shell of the tortoise; but this is more peculiarly the case 
when conscience tells the subject of the sarcasm that it is justly 
meiited. Christian, stung with Buckingham’s reproach, at once as- 
sumed a haughty and threatening mien, totally inconsistent with 
that in which sufierance seemed to be as much his badge as that of 
Shylock. “You are a foul-mouthed and most unworthy lord,” he 
said; “ and as such 1 will prolcaim you, unless you make reparation 
for the injury you have done mei.” 

“ And what,” said the Duke of Buckingham, “ shall 1 proclaim 
you, that can give you the least title to notice from such as I am? 
What name shall 1 bestow on the little transaction which has given 
rise to such unexpected misunderstanding?” 

Christian was silent, either from rage or from mental conviction. 

“ Come, come, Christian,” said the duke, smiling, “ we know too 
much of each other to make a quarrel safe. Hate each other we 
may — circumvent each other — it is the way of Courts — but pro- 
claim! — a fico for the phrase.” 

“ T used it not,” said Chiistian, “ till your grace drove me to ex- 
tremity. You know, my lord, 1 have fought both at home and 
abroad; and you should not rashly think that 1 will endure any in- 
dignity which blood can wipe away.” 

“ On the contrary,” said the duke, with the same civil and sneer- 
ing manner, “ I can confidently assert, that the life of half a score 
of 5mur friends would seem very light to you, Christian, if their ex- 
istence interfered, I do not say with your character, as being a thing 
of much less consequence, but with any advantage which their ex- 
istence might intercept, h'ie upon it, man, we have known each 
other long. 1 never thought you a coward; and am only glad to see 
] could strike a few sparkles of heat out of your cold and constant 
disposition. 1 will now, if you please, tell you at once the fate of 
the young lady, in which 1 pray you to believe that 1 am truly inter- 
ested.” 

“ 1 hear you, my lord duke,” said ChrisCian. “ The curl of your 
upper lip, and your eyebrow, does not escape me. Y^our grace 
knows the French proverb, ‘ He laughs best who laughs last.’ But I 
hear you.” 

“ Thank Heaven you do,” said Buckingham; “ for your case re- 
quires haste, I promise you, and involves no laughing matter. Well 
then, hear a simple truth, on which (if it became me to ofl'er any 
pledge for what 1 assert to be such) I could pledge life, fortune, and 
honor, it was the morning before last, when meeting with the king 
at Chiffinch’s unexpectedly — in fact 1 had looked in to fool an hour 
away, and to learn how your scheme advanced — 1 saw a singular- 
scene. Your niece terrified little Chiffinch— (the hen Chifiinch, 1 
mean) — bid the king defiance to his teeth, and walked out of the 
presence triumphantly, under the girardianship of ayouug fellow of 
little mark or likelihood,, excepting a tolerable personal presence, and 
the advantage of a most unconquerable impudence. Egad, 1 can 
hardly help laughing to think how the king and 1 were both baffled; 
for I will not deny, that I had tried lo trifle for a moment with the 


354 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


fair Indamora. But, egad, the young fellow swooped her off from 
under our noses, like my own Drawcansir clearing off the banquet 
from the two Kings of Brentford. There was a dignity in the gal- 
lant’s swaggering retreat which 1 must try to teach Mohun;* it will 
suit his part admirably.” 

“ This is incomprehensible, my lord duke,” said Christian, who 
by this time had recovered all his usual coolness; ” you cannot ex- 
pect me to believe this. Who dared be so bold as to carry off my 
niece in such a manner, and from so august a presence? And with 
whom, a stranger as he must have been, would she, wise and cau- 
tious as 1 know her, have consented to depart in such a manner? 
My lord, I cannot believe this.” 

” One of your priests, my most devout Christian,” replied the 
duke, ‘‘ would only answer. Die, infidel, in thine unbelief ; but 1 am 
only a poor worlding sinner, and 1 will add what mite of information 
1 can. The young fellow’s name, as 1 am eiven to understand, is 
Julian, son of Sir Geoffrey, whom men call Peveril ot the Peak.” 

” Peveril of the Devil, who hath his cavern there!” said Christian, 
warmly; “ for 1 know that gallant, and believe him capable of any- 
thing bold and desperate. But how could he intrude himself into 
the royal presence? Either Hell aids him, or Heaven looks nearer 
into mortal dealings than i have yet believed. If so, may God for- 
give us, who deemed he thought not on us at all!” 

‘‘Amen, most Christian Christian,” replied the duke. ”1 am 
glad to see thou hast yet some touch of grace that leads thee to 
augur so. But Empson, the hen Chifiinch, and half a dozen more, 
saw the swain’s entrance and departure. Please examine these wit- 
nesses with your owm wisdom, if you think your time may not be 
better employed in tracing the fugitives. 1 believe he gained en- 
trance as one of some dancing or masking party. Rowley, you 
know, is accessible to all who will come forth to make him sport. 
So in stole this termagant tearing gallant, like Samson among the 
Philistines, to pull down our fine scheme about our ears.” 

‘‘ 1 believe you, my Jgrd,” said Christian; ‘‘ 1 cannot but believe 
you; and 1 forgive you, since it is your nature, for making sport of 
what is ruin and destruction. But which way did they take?” 

‘‘ To Derbyshire, 1 should presume, to seek her father,” said the 
duke. ” She spoke of going into the paternal protection, instead of 
yours. Master Christian. Something had chanced at Chiffinch’S to 
give her cause to suspect that you had not altogether provided for 
his daughter in the manner which her father was likely to approve 

‘‘ Now, Heaven be praised,” said Christian, ‘‘ she knows not her 
father is come to London! and they must begone down either to 
Martindale Castle, or to Moultrassie Hall; in either case they aie in 
my power— I must follow them close. I will return instantly to 
Derbyshire— 1 am undone if she meet her father until these errors 
are amended. Adieu, my lord. 1 forgive the part which 1 fear 
your grace must have had in balking our enterprise — it is no time for 
mutual reproaches.” 


♦ Then a noted actor. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


355 

You speak trutli, Master Cliristian,”said the duke, “ and 1 wish 
you all success. Can 1 help you with men, or horses, or money?” 

” I thank your grace,” said Christian, and hastily left the apart- 
ment. 

The duke watched his descending footsteps on the staircase, until 
they could be heard no longer, and then exclaimed to Jerningham, 
who entered, ” Victoria! rictoria! magna e&t reritas et proivaleat! 
Had 1 told the villain a word of a lie, he is so familiar with all the 
regions of falsehood — his whole life has been such an absolute im- 
posture, that 1 had stood detected in an instant; but 1 told him truth, 
and that was the only means of deceiving him. Victoria! my dear 
Jerningham, 1 am prouder of cheating Christian, than 1 should have 
been of circumventing a minister of state.” 

” Your grace holds his wisdom very high,” said the attendant. 

“ His cunning, at least, 1 do, which, in Court affairs, often takes 
tho weather-gage of wisdom, — as in Yarmouth Roads a herring-buss 
will baffle a frigate. He shall not return to London if I can lielp it, 
until all these intrigues are over.” 

As his grace spoke, the colonel, after whom he had repeatedly 
made inquiry, was announced by a gentleman of his household. 
‘‘ He met not Christian, did he?” said tUe duke hastily. 

‘‘No, my lord,” returned the domestic, ‘‘the colonel came by 
the old garden staircase.” 

‘‘ 1 judged as much,” replied the duke; “ ’tisanowl that will not 
take wing in daylight, wfflen there is a thicket left to skulk under. 
Here he comes from threading lane, vault, and ruinous alley, very 
near as ominous a creature as the fowl of ill augury which he re- 
sembles.” 

The colonel, to whom no other appellation seemed to be given, 
than that which belonged to his military station, now entered the 
apartment. He was tall, strongly built, and past the middle period 
of life, and his countenance, but for the lieavy cloud which dwelt 
upon it, might have been pronounced a handsome one. While the 
duke spoke to him, either from Humility or some other cause, his 
large serious eye was cast down upon the ground; but he raised it 
when he answered, with a keen look of earnest observation. His 
dress was very plain, and more allied to that of the Puritans than of 
the Cavaliers of the time; a shadowy black hat, like the Spanish 
sombrero; a large black mantle or cloak, and a long rapier, gave 
him sometliing the air of a Catilione, to which his gravity and stiff- 
ness of demeanor added considerable strength. 

‘‘ Well, colonel,” said the duke, “ we have been long strangers — 
how have matters gone with you?” 

“ As with other men of action in quiet times,” answered the col- 
onel, “ or as a good war-caper* that lies high and dry in a muddy 
creek, till seams and planks are rent and riven.” 

” Well, colonel,” said the duke, “ 1 have used your valor before 
now, and 1 may again; so that 1 shall speedily see that the vessel is 
careened, and undergoes a thorough repair.” 

“ 1 conjecture, then,” said the colonel, “ that your gTace has some 
voyage in hand?” 


♦ A privateer, 


356 PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 

“ ISo, but there is one which I want to interrupt,” replied the 
duke. 

” 'Tis but another stave of the same tune. Well, my lord, I 
listen,” answered the stranger. 

” Nay,” said the duke, ” it is but a trifling matter after all. You 
know Ned Clmistian?” 

” Ay, surely, my lord,” replied the colonel, “ we have been long 
known to each other.’’ 

” He IS about to go down to Derbyshire to seek a certain niece of 
his, whom he will scarcely find there. Now, 1 trust to 3mur tried 
friendship to interrupt his return to London. Go with him, or meet 
him, cajole him, or assail him, or do what thou wilt with him — only 
keep him from London for a fortnight at least, and then 1 care lit- 
tle how soon he comes.” 

” For by that time, I suppose,” replied the colonel, " any one may 
find the wench that thinks her worth the looking for.” 

“ Thou mayst think her worth the looking for thyself, colonel,” 
rejoined the duke; ” 1 promise you she hath many a thousand 
stitched to her petticoat; such a wife would save thee from skelder- 
ing on the public.” 

” My lord, 1 sell my blood and my sword, but not my honor,” an- 
swered the man sullenly; “ if I marry, my bed may be a poor, but 
it shall be an honest one. ” 

” Then thy wife will be the only honest matter in thy possession, 
colonel — at least since 1 have known you,” replied the duke. 

” Why, truly, your grace may speak your pleasure on that point. 
It is chiefl}' jmur business which 1 have done of late; and if it were 
less strictly honest than I could have wished, the employer was to 
blame as well as the agent. But for marrying a cast-ofi; mistress, the 
man (saving your grace, to whom 1 am bound) lives not who dares 
propose it to me.” 

The duke laughed loudly. “ Why, this is mine Ancient Pistol’s 
vein,” he replied. 

“ Shafl I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,- 

And by my side wear steel?— then Lucifer take all I” 

” My breeding is too plain to understand ends of playhouse verse, 
my lord,” said the colonel sullenly. “Has your grace no other, 
service to command me?” 

“ None— only 1 am told you have published a Narrative concern- 
ing the Plot.”* 

“ What should ail me, my lord?” said the colonel; “ 1 hope 1 am 
a witness as competent as any that has yet appeared?” 

“ Truly, 1 think so to the full,” said the duke; “ and it would 
have been hard, when so much profitable mischief was going, if so 
excellent a Protestant as yourself had not come in for a share.” 

“1 came to take your grace’s commands, not to be the object of 
your wit, ’ ’ said the colonel. 

“Gallantly spoken, most resolute and most immaculate colonel! 
As you are to be on full pay in my service for a month to come, 1 
pray your acceptance of this purse, for contingents and equipments, 
and you shall have my instructions from time to time.” 

* See Note C C.—Colonel Blood's Narrative, 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 357 

“ They shall be punctually obeyed, my lord,” said the colonel ; “ I 
know the duty of a subaltern officer. 1 wish your grace a good 
morning.” 

So saying, he pocketed tlie purse, without either affecting hesita- 
tion, or expressing gratitude, but merely as a part of a transaction 
in the regular way of business, and stalked from tlie apartment with 
the same sullen gravity which marked his entrance. “Now, there 
goes a scoundrel after my own heart,” said the duke; “ a robber 
from his cradle, a murderer since he could hold a knife, a pro- 
found hypocrite in religion, and a worse and deeper hypocrite in 
honor— would sell his soul to the devil to accomplish any 
villainy, and would cut the throat of his brother, did he dare 
to give the villainy he had so acted its right name. Now, why 
stand you amazed, good Master Jerningham, and look on me as you 
would on some monster of Ind, when you had paid your shilling to 
see it, and were staring out 3'our pennyworth with your eyes as round 
as a pair of spectacles? Wink, man, and save them, and then let 
thy tongue untie the mystery. ” 

“ On my word, my lord duke,” answered Jerningham, “ since 1 
am compelled to speak, 1 can only say, that the longer 1 live with 
your grace, 1 am the" more at a loss to fathom your motives of 
action. Others lay plans, either to attain profit or pleasure by their 
execution; but your grace’s delight is to counteract your own 
schemes, wffien in the very act of performance; like a child — for- 
give me — that breaks its favorite toy, or a man who should set fire 
to the house he has half built.” 

“ And why not, if he wanted to warm his hands at the blaze?” 
said the duke. 

“ Ay, my lord,” replied his dependent; “ but what if, in doing 
so, he should burn his fingers? My lord, it is one of youi noblest 
qualities, that you will sometimes listen to the truth without taking 
ofleuse; but were it otherwise, 1 could not, at this moment, help 
speaking out at every risk. ’ ’ 

“ Well, say on, 1 can bear it,” said the duke, throwing himself 
into an easy-chair, and using his toothpick with graceful indiffer- 
ence and equanimity; “ I love to hear what such potsherds as thou 
art, think of the proceedings of us who are of the puie porcelain 
clay of the earth.” 

“ In the name of Heaven, ipy lord, let me then ask you,” said 
Jerningham, “ what merit you claim, or what advantage you expect, 
from having embroiled every thing in which you are concerned to a 
degree which equals the chaos of the blind old Roundhead’s poem 
which your grace is so fond of? To begin with the king. In spite 
of good-humor, he will be incensed at jmur repeated rivalry.” 

“ His majesty defied me to it. ” 

“ You have lost all hopes of the Isle, by quarreling with Chris- 
tian.” 

“ 1 have ceased to care a farthing about it,” replied the duke. 

“ In Christian himself, whom you have insulted, and to whose 
family you intend dishonor, you have lost a sagacious, artful, and 
cool-headed instrument and adherent,” said the monitor. 

“ Poor Jerningham!” answered the duke; “ Christian would say 
as much for thee, 1 doubt hot, wert thou discarded to-morrow. It 


358 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


is the common error of such tools as you and he to think themselves 
indispensable. As to his family, what was never honorable cannot 
be dishonored by any connection with my house.” 

“ I say nothing of Chiffinch,” said Jerningham, ” offended as he 
will be when he learns why, and by whom, his scheme has been 
ruined, and the lady spirited away. He and his wife, I say nothing 
ot them.” 

“You need not,” said the duke; “ for were they even fit persons 
to speak to me about, the Duchess of Portsmouth lias bargained for 
their disgrace.” 

“ Then this bloodhound of a colonel, as he calls himself, your 
grace cannot even lay Mm on a quest which is to do you service, but 
you must do him such indignity at the same time, as he will not fail 
to remember, and be sure to fly at your throat should he ever have 
an opportunity of turning on you.” 

“ 1 will take care he has none,” said the duke; “ and yours, Jer- 
ningham, is a low-lived apprehension. Beat your spaniel heartily 
if you would have him under command. Ever let your agents see 
you know what they are, and prize them accordingly. A rogue, 
who must needs be treated as a man of honor, is apt to get above 
his work. Enough, therefore, of your advice aijd censure, Jerning- 
ham; we differ in every particular. Were we both engineers, you 
would spend your life in watching some old woman’s wheel, which 
spins flax by the ounce; 1 must be in the midst of the most varied 
and counteracting machinery, regulating checks and counter checks, 
balancing weights, proving springs and wheels, directing and con- 
trolling a hundred combined powers.” 

“ And your fortune, in the meanwhile?” said Jerningham; “par- 
don this last hint, my lord.” 

“ My fortune,” said the duke, “ is too vast to be hurt by a petty 
wound; and 1 have, as thou knowest, a thousand salves in store for 
the scratches and scars which it sometimes receives in greasing my 
machinery. ’ ’ 

“ Your grace does not mean Dr. Wilderhead’s powder of projec- 
tion?” 

“ Pshaw 1 he is a quacksalver, and mountebank, and beggar.” 

“ Or Solicitor Drowndland’s plan for draining the fens?” 

“ He is a cheat — mdelicet, an attorney.” 

“ Or the Laird of Lackpelf’s sale of Highland woods?’" 

“ He is a Scotsman,” said the duke— “ videlicet, both cheat and 
beggar.” 

“ These streets here, upon the site of your noble mansion-house?” 
said Jerningham. 

^ “ The architect’s a bite, and the plan’s a bubble. 1 am sick of the 
sight of this rubbish, and 1 will soon replace our old alcoves, alleys, 
and flowerpots, by an Italian garden and a new palace.” 

“That, my lord, would be to waste, not to improve your fort- 
une,” said his domestic. 

“ Clodpate, and muddy spirit that thou art, thou hast forgot the 
most hopeful scheme of all— the South Sea Fisheries— their stock is 
up 50 per cent, already. Post down to the Alley, and tell old 
Manasses to buy £20,000 for me. Forgive me, Plutus, 1 forgot to 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


359 

lay my sacrifice on thy shrine, and yet expected thy favors? Fly 
post haste, Jerningham— for thy life, for thy life, for thy life!”* 
With hands and eyes uplifted, Jerningham left the apartment; 
and the duke, without thinking a moment further on old or new in- 
trigues — on the friendship he had formed, or the enmity he had pro- 
voked — on the beauty whom he had carried ofi from her natural 
protectors, as well as from her lover — or on the monarch against 
whom he had placed himself in rivalship— sat down to calculate 
chances with all the zeal of Demoivre, tired of the drudgery in half 
an hour, and refused to see the zealous agent whom he had em- 
ployed in the city because he was busily engaged in writing a new 
lampoon. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Ah ! changeful head, and fickle heart ! 

Progress of Discontent. 

No event is more ordinary in narratives of this nature, than the 
abduction of the female on whose fate the interest is supposed to 
turn; but that of Alice Briagenorth was thus far particular, that 
she was spirited away by the Duke of Buckingham, more in con- 
tradiction than in rivalry of passion ; and that, as he made his first 
addresses to her at Chiffinch’s, rather in the spirit of rivalry to his 
sovereign, than from any strong impression which her beauty had 
made on his affections, so he had formed the sudden plan of spirit- 
ing her away by means of his dependents, rather to perplex Chris- 
tian, the king, Chiffinch, and all concerned, than because he had any 
particular desire for her society at his own mansion. Indeed, so far 
was this from being the case, that his grace was rather surprised 
than delighted with the success of the enterprise which had made 
her an inmate there, although it is probable he might have thrown 
himself into an uncontrollable passion, had he learned its miscar- 
riage instead of its success. 

Twenty-four hours had passed over since he had returned to his 
own roof, before, notwithstanding sundry hints from Jerningham, he 
could even determine on the exertion necessary to pay his fair cap- 
tive a visit; and then it was with the internal reluctance of one who 
can only be stirred from indolence by novelty. 

” 1 wonder what made me plague myself about this wench,” said 
he, ” and doom myself to encounter all the hysterical rhapsodies of 
a country Phillis, with her head stufied with her grandmother's 
lessons about virtue and the Bible-book, when the finest and best- 
bred women in town may be had upon more easy terms. It is a 
pity one cannot mount the victor’s car of triumph without having 
a victory to boast of ; yet, faith, it is what most cf our modern gal- 
lants do, though it would not become Buckingham. Well, 1 must 
see her,” he concluded, ” though it were but to rid the house of her. 
The Portsmouth will not hear of her being set at liberty near 

* Stock-jobbing, as it is called, that is, dealing in shares of monopolies, 
patents, and joint-stock companies of every description, was at least as com- 
mon in Charles II. ’s time as our own; and as the exercise of ingenuity in this 
way promised a road to wealth without the necessity of industry, it was then 
much pursued by dissolute courtiers. 


360 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Charles, so much is she afraid of a new fair seducing the old sinner 
from his allegiance. So how the girl is to be disposed of — for I shall 
have little fancy to keep her here, and she is too wealthy to be sent 
down to Cliefden as a housekeeper — is a matter to be thought on.” 

He then called for such a dress as might set off his natural good 
mien — a compliment which he considered as due to his own merit; 
for as to anything further, he went to pay his respects to his fair 
prisoner with almost as little zeal in the cause, as a gallant to fight 
a duel in which he has no warmer interest than the maintenance of 
his reputation as a man of honor. 

The set of apartments consecrated to the use of those favorites 
who occasionally made Buckingham’s mansion their place of abode, 
and who were, so far as liberty was concerned, often required to 
observe the regulations of a convent, were separated from the rest of 
the duke’s extensive mansion. He lived in the age when what was 
called gallantry warranted the most atrocious actions of deceit and 
violence; as may be best illustrated by the catastrophe of an unfor- 
tunate actress, whose beauty attracted the attention of the last De 
Veie, Earl of Oxford. While her virtue defied his seductions, he 
ruined her under color of a mock marriage, and was rewarded for a 
success which occasioned the death of his victim by the general ap- 
plause of the men of wit and gallantry who filled the drawing-room 
of Charles. 

Buckingham had made provision in the interior of his ducal man- 
sion for exploits of a similar nature; and the set of apartments 
which he now visited were alternately used to confine the reluctant, 
and to accommodate the willing. 

Being now destined for the former purpose, the key was delivered 
to the duke by a hooded and spectacled old lady, who sat reading a 
devout book in the the outer hall wiiich divided these apartments 
(usually called the Nunnery), from the rest of the house. This ex- 
perienced dowager acted as mistress of the ceremonies on such oc- 
casions, and was the trusty depositary of more intrigues than were 
known to any dozen of her worshipful calling besides. 

“ As sweet a linnet,” she said, as she undid the outward door, 
” as ever sung in a cage.” 

” 1 w^as afraid she might have been more for moping than for 
singing, Dowlas,” said the duke. 

” Till yesterday she' was so, please your g-race,” answered Dow- 
las; “ or, to speak sooth, till early this morninu, we heard of noth- 
ing but Lachrymae. But the air of your noble grace’s house is favor- 
able to singing-birds; and today matters have been amuch 
mended.” 

” ’Tis sudden, dame,” said the duke; “ and ’tis something strange, 
considering that 1 have never visited her, that the pretty trembler 
should have been so soon reconciled to her fate.” 

‘‘ Ah, your grace has such magic that it communicates itself to 
your very walls; as wholesome Scripture says. Exodus, first and 
seventh, * It cleaveth to the walls and (he door-posts.’ ” 

‘‘You are too partial, Dame Dowlas,” said the Duke of Bucking- 
ham. 

“ Not a word but truth,” said the dame; “ and 1 wish 1 may be 
an outcast from the fold of the lambs but I think this damsel’s very 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 361 

frame lias changed since she was under your grace’s roof. Mcthinks 
she hath a lighter form, a finer step, a more displayed ankle. 1 
cannot tell, but 1 think there is a change. But, lack-a-day, your 
grace knows 1 am as old as 1 am trusty, and that my eyes wax 
something uncertain.” 

“ Especially when you wash them with a cup of canary. Dame 
Dowlas,” answered the duke, who was aware that temperance was 
not amongst the cardinal virtues which were most familiar to the 
old lady’s practice. 

” Was it canary your grace said? Was it indeed with canary, 
that your grace should have supposed me to have washed my eyes?” 
said the offended matron. “ 1 am sorry that your grace should 
know me no better.” 

” 1 crave your pardon, dame,” said the duke, shaking aside fas- 
tidiously the grasp which, in the earnestness of her exculpation. 
Madam Dowlas had clutched upon his sleeve. “ 1 crave your par- 
don. Your nearer approach has convinced me of my erroneous im- 
putation — 1 should have said mantz, not canary.” 

So saying, he walked forward into Ihe inner apartments, which 
were fitted up with an air of voluptuous magnificence. 

” The dame said true, however,” said the proud deviser and nro- 
prietor of the splendid mansion, ” A country Phillis might well re- 
concile herself to such a prison as this, even without a skillful bird- 
fancier to touch a bird-call. But I wonder where she can be, this 
rural Phidele. Is it possible she can have retreated, like a despair- 
ing commandant, into her bedchamber, the ver}’- citadel of the 
place, without even an attempt to defend the out-works?” 

As he made this refiection, he passed through an ante- chamber and 
little eating parlor, exquisitely furnished, and hung with excellent 
paintings of the Venetian school. 

Beyond these lay a withdrawing-room, fitted up in a style of still 
more studied elegance. The windows were darkened with painted 
glass, of such a deep and rich color, as made the mid-day beams, 
which found their way into the apartment, imitate the rich colors of 
sunset; and, in the celebrated expression of the poet, “ taught light 
to counterfeit a gloom.” 

Buckingham’s feelings and taste had been too much, and too 
often, and too readily gratified, to permit him, in the general case, ' 
to be easily accessible, 'even to those pleasures which it had been 
the business of his life to pursue. The hackne 3 "ed voluptuary is 
like che jaded epicure, the mere listlessness of whose appetite be- 
comes at length a sufficient penalty for having made it the principal 
object of his enjoyment and cultivation. Yet novelty has always 
some charms, and uncertainty has more. 

• The doubt how he was to be received-~the change of mood which 
his prisoner was said to have evinced— the curiosity to know how 
such a creature as Alice Bridgeuorth had been described, was likely 
to bear herself under the circumstances in which she was so unex- 
pectedly placed, had upon Buckingham the effect of exciting un- 
usual interest. On his own part he had none of those feelings of 
anxiety with which a man, even of the most vulgar mind, comes to 
the presence of the female whom he wishes to please, far less the 
more refined sentiments of love, respect, desire, and awe, with 


362 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


which the more refined lover approaches the beloved object. He had 
been, to use an expiessive French phrase, too completely blase even 
from his earliest youth, to permit him now to experience the animal 
eagerness of the one, far less the more sentimental pleasure of the 
other. It is no small aggravation ot this jaded and uncomfortable 
state of mind, that the voluptuary cannot renounce the pursuits with 
which he is satiated, but must continue, for his character’s sake, or 
from the mere force of habit to take all the toil, fatigue, and danger 
of the chase while he has so little real interest in the termination. 

Buckingham, therefore, felt it due to his reputation as a success- 
ful hero of intrigue, to pay his addresses to Alice Bridgenorth -with 
dissembled eagerness; and, as he opened the door of the inner 
apartment, he paused to consider whether the tone of gallantry or 
that ot passion was fittesLto use on the occasion. This delay en- 
abled him to hear a few notes of a lute touched with exquisite skill, 
and accompanied bv the still sweeter strains of a female voice, 
which, without executing any complete melody, seemed to sport it- 
self in rivalship ot the silver sound of the instrument. 

“ A creature so well educated,” said the duke, ” with the sense 
she is said to possess, would, rustic as she is, laugh at the assumed 
rants of Oroondates. It is the vein ot Dorimont — once, Bucking- 
ham, thine own — that must here do the feat, besides that the part is 
easier.” 

So thinking, he entered the room with that easy grace which char- 
acterized the gay courtiers among whom he flourished, and ap- 
proached the fair tenant, whom he found seated near a table covered 
with books and music, and having on her left hand the large half- 
open casement, dim with stained glass, admitting only a doubtful 
light into this lordly retiring-room, which, hung with the richest 
tapestry of the Gobelines, and ornamented with piles of china and 
splendid mirrors, seemed like a bower built for a prince to receive 
his bride. 

The splendid dress of the inmate corresponded with the taste of 
the apartment which she occupied, and partook of the Oriental cos- 
tume which the much-admired Roxalaua had then brought into 
fashion. A slender foot and ankle, which escaped from the wide 
trouser of richly ornamented and embroidered blue satin, was the 
only part of her person distinctly seen; the rest w^as enveloped, 
from head to foot, in a long veil of silver gauze, which, like a 
feathery and light mist on a beautiful landscape, suffered you to 
perceive that what it concealed w^as rarely lovely, yet induced the 
imagination even to enhance the charms it shaded. Such part of 
the dress as could be discoveied, was, like the veil and the trousers, 
in the Oriental taste; a rich turban and splendid caHan were 
rather indicated than distinguished thiough the folds of the former. 
The whole attire argued at least coquetry on the part of a fair one, 
who must have expected, from her situation, a visitor of some pre- 
tension; and induced Buckingham to smile internally at Christian’s 
account of the extreme simplicity and purity of his niece. 

He approached the lady en cavalier, and addressed her with the 
air of being conscious, while he acknowledged his offenses, that his 
condescending to do so formed a suflicient apology for them. ” Fair 
Mistress Alice,” he said, ” 1 am sensible how deeply 1 ought to sue 


1»EVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


363 

for pardon for the mistaken zeal of my servants, who, seeing you 
deserted and exposed without protection during an unlucky aftray, 
tODk it upon them to bring you under the roof of one who would 
expose his life rather than suffer you to sustain a moment’s anxiety. 
Was it my fault that those around me should have judged it neces- 
sary to interfere tor your preservation; or that, aware of the interest 
I must take iu you, they have detained you till 1 could myself, in 
periK)nal attendance, receive your commands?” 

” That attendance has not been speedily rendered, my lord,” an- 
swered tlic lady. ‘‘ 1 have been a prisoner for two days — neglectc*d, 
and left to the charge of menials.” 

“How say you, lady? Neglected!” exclaimed the duke. “By 
heaven, if the best in my household has failed in his duty, 1 will 
discard him on the instant?” 

“ 1 complain of no lack of courtesy from your servants, my lord,” 
she replied; “ but methinks it had been but complaisant in the duke 
himself to explain to me earlier wherefore he has had the boldness 
to detain me as a state prisoner. ” 

“And can the divine Alice doubt,” said Buckingham, “that, 
had time and space, those cruel enemies to the flight of passion, 
given permission, the instant in which you crossed your vassal’s 
threshold had seen its devoted master at youi feet, who hath 
thought, since he saw you, of nothing but the charms which that 
fatal morning placed before him at Chiffinch’s?” 

“ 1 understand, then, my lord,” said the lady, “that you have 
teen absent, and have had no part in the restraint which has been 
exercised upon me?” 

“ Absent on the king’s command, lady, and employed in the dis- 
charge of his duty,” answered Buckingham, without hesitation. 
“ What could 1 do? The moment you left Chifflneh’s, his majesty 
commanded me to the saddle in such haste, that 1 had no time to 
change my satin buskins for riding- boots.* If my absence has oc- 
casioned you a moment of inconvenience, blame the inconsiderate 
zeal of those, who, seeing me depart from London, half distracted 
at niv separation from you, w^ere willing to contribute their unmi.n- 
nered, though well-meant exertions, to preserve their master from 
despair, by retaining the fair Alice within his reach. Tc whom, in- 
deed, could they have restored you? He whom you selected as your 
champion is in prison, or fled-^your father absent from town— your 
uncle in the north. To Chiffinch’s house you had expressed your 
well-founded aversion; and what fitter asylum remained than that 
of your devoted slave, where you must ever reign a queen?” 

“An imprisoned one,” said the lady. “ 1 desire not such roy- 
alty.” 

“ Alas! how willfully you misconstrue me!” said the duke, kneel- 
ing on one knee; “ and what right can you have to complain of a 
few hours’ gentle restraint — you, who destine so many to hopeless 
captivity? Be merciful for once, and withdraw that envious veil; 

* This case is not without precedent. Among the jealousies and fears ex- 
pressed by the Long Parliament, they insisted much upon an agent for the 
king departing for the continent so abruptly, that he had not time to change 
his court dress — white buskins, to wit, and black silk iiantaloons— foran equip- 
ment more suitable to travel with. 


364 l^EVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 

for tlie divinities are ever most cruel when they deliver their oracles 
from such clouded recesses. Sutter at least my rash hand—’' 

“ 1 -wdll save your grace that unworthy trouble,” said the lady, 
haughtily; and rising up, she flung back over her shoulders the veil 
which shrouded her, saying at the same lime, ” Look on me, my 
lord dukOj and see if these be indeed the charms which have made 
on your grace an impression so powerful.” 

Buckingham did look; and the effect produced on him by sur- 
prise was so strong that he rose hastily from his knee and re- 
mained for a few seconds as if he had been petrified. The figure 
that stood before him had neither the height nor the rich shape of, 
Alice Bridgenorth; and, though perfectly well made, was so 
slightly formed as to seem almost infantine. Her dress w^as three 
or four shoit vests of embroidered satin, disposed one over the 
other, of different colors, or rather different shades of similar colors; 
for strong contrast was carefully avoided. These opened in front, so 
as to show part of the throat and neck, partially obscured by an 
inner covering of the finest lace; over the uppermost vest was worn 
a sort of mantle or coat of rich fur. A small but magnificent tur- 
ban was carelessly placed on her head, from under w^hich flowed a 
profusion of coal-black tresses, which Cleopatra might have envied. 
The tastes and splendor of the Eastern dress corresponded with the 
complexion of the lady’s face, which was brunette, of a shade so 
dark as might almost have served an Indian. 

Amidst a set of features, in which rapid and keen expression 
made amends for the want of regular beauty, the essential points of 
eyes as bright as diamonds, and teeth as white as pearls, did not 
escape the Duke of Buckingham, a professed connoisseur in female 
charms. In a word, the fanciful and singular female who thus un- 
expectedly produced herself before him, had one of those faces 
which are never seen without making an impression; wdiich, wdien 
removed, are long after remembered; and for wLich, in our idle- 
ness, we are tempted to invent a hundred histories that we may 
please our fancy by supposing the features under the influence of 
different kinds of emotion. Every one must have in recollection 
countenances of this kind, which, from a captivating and stimulating 
originality of expression, abide longer in the memory, and are mure 
seductive to the imagination than even regular beauty. 

” My Lord Duke,” said the lady, ” it seems the lilting of my 
veil has done the work of magic upon your grace. Alas, tor the 
captive princess whose nod was to conimand a vassal so costly as 
your grace! Bhe runs, methinks, no slight chance of b( 3 ing turned 
out of doors, like a second Cinderella, to seek her fortune among 
lackeys and lightermen.” 

” 1 am astonished!” said the duke. ” That villain, Jerningham 
— I will have the scoundrel’s blood!” 

‘‘ Hay, never abuse Jerningham for the matter,” said the Un- 
known; ” but lament your own unhappy engagements. While you, 
my Lord Duke, were posting northward, m wdiite satin buskins, to 
toil in the king’s affairs, the right and lawTul princess sat weeping 
in sables in the uncheered solitude to which your absence con- 
demned her. Two days she was disconsolate in vain; on the third 
came an African enchantress to change the scene for her, and the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


365 


person for your grace. IMetliinks, my lord, this adventure will tell 
but ill, when some faithful squire shall recount or record the gal- 
lant adventures of the second Duke of Buckingham.” 

” Fairly bit and bantered to boot,” said the duke—” the monkey 
has a turn for satire, too, by all that is Tnqvante. Hark ye, fair 
princess, how dared you adventure on such a trick as you have been 
accomplice to!” 

” Dare, my lord!” answered the stranger; “put the question to 
others, not to one who fears nothing.” 

” By my faith, 1 believe ^o; for thy front is bronzed by nature. 
Hark ye, once more, mistress. What is your name and condition?” 

” My condition 1 Lave told you. 1 am a Mauritanian sorceress by 
profession, and my name is Zarah,” replied the Eastern maiden. 

“But methinks that face, shape, and e3"es ”— said the duke— 
” when didst thou pass for a dancing fairy? Some such imp thou 
wert not many days since.” 

” My sister you may have seen — my twin sister; but not me, my 
lord, ’ ’ * answered Zarah , 

” Indeed,” said the duke, ” that duplicate of thine, if it was not 
thy very self, was possessed with a dumb spirit, as thou with a talk- 
ing one. 1 am still in the piind that you are the same; and that 
Satan, always so powerful with 3mur sex, had art enough on our 
former meeting, to make thee hold thy tongue.” 

” Believe what you will of it, m3'^ lord,” replied Zarah, ” it can- 
not change the truth. And now, my lord, I bid 3mu farewell. Have 
you any commands to Mauritania?” 

” Tarry a little, my princess,” said the duke, ” and remember, 
that you have voluntarily entered yourself as pledge for anothei ; 
and are justly subjected to any pcnalt3’- wluch it is my pleasure to 
exact. None must brave Buckingham with impunity.” 

” 1 am in no hurry to depart, if your grace hath any commands 
for me.” 

” What! are you neither afraid of my resentment, nor of my love, 
fair Zarah!” said the duke. 

” Of neither, by this glove,” answered the lad3^ ” Your resent- 
ment must be a petty passion indeed if it could stoop to such a 
helpless object as I am; and for your love — good lack! good lack!” 

” And why good lack with such a tone of contempt, lady?” said 
the duke, piqued in spite of himself. “Think you Buckingham 
cannot love, or has never been beloved in return?” 

” He ma3’' have thought himself beloved,” said the maiden; ” but 
by what slight creatures! things whose heads could be rendered 
giddy by a play- house rant — whose brains were only tilled with red- 
heeled shoes and satin buskins — and who run altogether mad on the 
argument of a George and a star.” 

” And are there no such frail fair ones in your climate, most 
scornful princess?” said the duke. 

” There are,” said the lad3q ” but men rate them as parrots and 
monke3''S — things without, either sense or soul, head or heart. The 
nearness we bear to the sun has purified, while it strengthens, our 
passions. The icicles of your frozen climate shall as soon hammer 
Jiot bars into plowshares, as shall the foppery and foll3^ of your 


360 PEVJaUL OF THE TEAK. 

pretended gallantry, make an instant’s impression on a breast like 
mine.” 

“ You speak like one wlio.knowa what passion is,” said the duke. 
“ Sit down, fair lady, and grieve not that i detain you. Who can 
consent to part with a tongue of so much melody, or an eye of such 
expiessive eloquence? You have known then what it is to love?” 

‘‘Iknow — no matter if by experience, or through the report of 
others — but 1 do know, that fo love as 1 would love, would be to 
yield not an iota to avarice, not one inch to vanity, not to sacrifice 
the slightest feeling to interest or to ambition; but to give up all to 
fidelity of heart and reciprocal affection.” 

” And how many women, think you, are capable of feeling such 
disinterested passion.’' 

“More, by thousands, than there are men who merit it,” an- 
swered Zarah. “ Alasl how often do you see tne female, pale, and 
wretched, and degraded, still following with patient constancy the 
footsteps of some predominating tyrant, and submitting to all his 
injustice with the endurance of a faithful and misused spaniel, 
which, prizes a look from his master, though the surliest groom that 
ever disgraced humanity, more than all the pleasure which the 
world besides can furnish him ! Think; what such would be to one 
who merited and repaid her devotion.” 

“ Perhaps the very reverse,” said the duke; “ and for your sim- 
ile 1 can sec little resemblance. 1 cannot charge my spaniel with 
any perfidy; but for my mistresses — to confess truth, 1 must always 
be in a cursed hurry if 1 would have the credit of changing them 
before they leave me.” 

“ And they serve you but rightly, my lord,” answered the lad}^; 
“ for what are you? Nay, frown not; for 5 ’ou must hear the truth 
tor once. Nature has done its part, and made a fair outside, and 
courtly education hath added its share. You are noble, it is tlie ac- 
cident of birth — handsome, it is the caprice of Nature — generous, 
because to give is more easy than to refuse — well-appareled, it is to 
the credit of j'^our tailor — well-natured in the main, because you 
have youth and health — brave, because to be otherwise were to be 
degraded— and witty, because you cannot help it.” 

The duke darted a glance on one of the large mirrors. “ Noble 
and handsome, and court-like, generous, well-attired, good-hu- 
mored, brave, and witty! You allow me more, madam, than 1 have 
the slightest pretension to, and surely enough to make my way, at 
some point at least, to female favor,” 

“1 have neither allowed you a heart nor a head,” said Zarah, 
calmly — “ Nay, never redden, as if you would fly at me. 1 say not 
but nature may have given you both ; but folly has confounded the 
one, and selfishness perverted the other. The man whom 1 call de- 
serving the name, is one whose thoughts and exertions are for others, 
rather than himself— whose high purpose is adopted on just princi- 
ples, and never abandoned while heaven or earth affords means of 
accomplishing it. He is one who will neither seek an indirect ad- 
vantage by a specious road, nor lake an evil path to gain a real good 
purpose. Such a man were one for whom a woman’s heart should 
beat constant while he breathes, and break when he dies,” 


PEYETllL OF THE PEAK. 367 

She spoke with so much energy that the water sparkled in her 
eyes, and her cheek colored with the vehemence of her feelings. 

“ You speak,” said the duke, “as if you had yourself a heart 
which could pay the full tribute to the merit which you describe so 
warmlj’-. ’ ’ 

“ And have 1 not?” said she, laying her hand on her bosom. 
“ Here beats one that would bear me out in what 1 have said, 
whether in life or in death.” 

“Were it in my power,” said the duke, who began to get further 
interested in his visitor than he could at first have thought possible 
— “ Were it in my power to deserve such faithful attachment, me- 
thinks it should be my care to requite it.” 

“ Your wealth, your titles, your reputation as a gallant — all you 
possess, were too little to merit such sincere aftection.” 

“ Come, fair lady,” said the duke, a good deal piqued, “ do not 
be quite so disdainHil. Bethink you, that if your love be as pure as 
coined gold, still a poor fellow like m3^s€lf ma}'- ofler you an equiva- 
lent in silver. The quantity of my affection must make up for its 
quality.” 

“But I am not carrying my affection to market, my lord; and 
therefore 1 need none of the base coin you offer in change for it.” 

“ How do I know that, my fairest!” said the duke. “ This is the 
realm of Paphos. You havo invaded it, with what purpose you best 
know; but 1 think with none consistent with your present assump- 
tion of cruelty. Come, come — eyes that are so intelligent can laugh 
with delight as well as gleam with scorn and anger. You are here 
a waif on Cupid’s manor, and 1 must seize on you in name of the 
deity.” 

“ Do not think of touching me, my lord,” said the lady. “ Ap- 
proach me not, if you would hope to learn the purpose of my being 
here. Your grace may suppose y^ourself a Solomon if you please; 
but 1 am no traveling princess, come from distant climes, either to 
flatter your pride, or wonder at your glory.” 

“ A defiance, by Jupiter!” said the duke. 

“You mistake the signal,” said the ‘ dark ladye;’ “ I came not 
here without taking sufficient precautions for my retreat.” 

“You mouth it bravely,” said the duke; “ but never fortress so 
boasted its resources but the garrison had some thoughts of surren- 
der. Thus ] open the first parallel.” 

They had been hitherto divided from each other by a long narrow 
table, which, placed in the recess of the large casement we have 
mentioned, had formed a sort of barrier on the lad^'^s side, against 
the adventurous gallant. The duke went hastily to remove it as he 
spoke; but, attentive to all his motions, his visitor instantly darted 
through the half open window, 

Buckingham uttered a cry of horror and surprise, having no 
doubt, at first, that she had precipitated herself from a height of at 
least fourteen feet; for so far the window was distant from the 
ground. But when he sprung to the spot, he perceived, to his aston- 
ishment, that she had effected her descent with equal agility and 
safety. 

The outside of this stately mansion was decorated with a quantity 
of carving, in the mixed state, betwixt the Gothic and Grecian 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


368 

styles, which marks the age of Elizabeth and her successor ; and 
though the feat seemed a surprising one, the projections of these 
ornaments were sufficient to alford footing to a creature so light and 
active, even in her hasty descent. 

Inflamed alike by mortification and curiosity, Buckingham at first 
entertained some thought of following her by the same dangerous 
route, and had actually got upon the sill of the window for that 
purpose; and was contemplating what might be his next safe move- 
ment, when, from a neighboring thicket of shrubs, amongst which 
his visitor had disappeared, he heard her chant a verse of a comic 
song, then much in fashion, concerning a despairing lover who had 
recourse to a precipice — 

“ But when he came near. 

Beholding how steep 
The sides did appear. 

And the bottom how deep ; 

Though his suit was rejected. 

He sadly reflected. 

That a lover forsaken 
A new love may get ; 

But a neck that’s once broken 
Can never be set.” 

The duke could not help laughing, though much against his will, 
at the resemblance which the verses bore to his own absurd situa- 
tion, and, stepping back into the apartment, desisted from an at- 
tempt which might have proved dangerous as well as ridiculous. He 
called his attendants, and contented himself with watching the little 
thicket, unwilling to think that a female, who had thrown herself in 
a great measure into his way, meant absolutely to mortify him by a 
retreat. 

That question was determined in an instant. A form, wrapped 
in a mantle, with a slouched hat and shadowy plume, issued from 
the bushes, and was lost in a moment amongst the ruins of ancient 
and of modern buildings, with which, as we have already stated, the 
demesne formerly termed York House, was now encumbered in all 
directions. 

The duke’s servants, who had obeyed his impatient summons, 
were hastily directed to search tor this tantalizing siren in every di- 
rection. Their master, in the meantime, eager and vehement in 
every new pursuit, but especially when his vanity was piqued, en- 
couraged their diligence by bribes, and threats, and commands. All 
was in vain. They found nothing of the Mauritanian Princess, as 
she called herself, but the turban and the veil: both of which she 
had left in the thicket, together with her satin slippem; which arti- 
cles, doubtless, she had thrown aside as she exchanged them for 
others less remarkable. 

Finding all his search in vain, the Duke of Buckingham, after 
the example of spoiled children of all ages and stations, gave a loose 
to the frantic vehemence of passion: and fiercely he swore vengeance 
on his late visitor, whom he termed by a thousand opi)robrious epi- 
thets, of which the elegant phrase “jilt” was most frequently re- 
peated. 

Even Jerningham, who knew the depths and shallows of his mas- 
ter’s mood, and was bold to fathom them at almost every state of 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


3(39 

his passions, kept out of his way on the present occasion ; and, cab- 
incted with the pious old housekeeper, declared to her, over a bottle 
of ratafia, that, in his apprehension, if his grace did not learn to put 
some control on his temper, chains, darkness, straw, and Bedlam, 
would be the final doom of the gifted and admired Duke of Buck- 
ingham. 


CHAPTER XL. * ^ 

Contentions fierce, 

Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause. 

Albion. 

The quarrels between man and wife are proverbial; but let not 
these honest folks think that connections of a less permanent nature 
are tree from similar jars. The frolic of the Duke of Buckingham, 
and the subsequent escape of Alice Bridgenorth, had kindled fierce 
dissention in Chiffinch’s family, when, on his arrival in town, he 
learned these two stunning events: “ 1 tell you,” he said to his 
obliging helpmate, who seemed but little moved by all that he could 
say on the subject, “ that your d— d carelessness has ruined the work 
of years.” 

“ 1 think it is the twentieth time you have said so,” replied the 
dame: “ and without such frequent assurance, 1 was quite ready to 
believe that a very trifling matter would overset any scheme of 
yours, however long thougld of.” 

“ How on earth could you have the folly to let the duke into the 
house when you expected the king?” said the irritated courtier. 

“ Lord, Chiffinch,” answered the lady, ” ought not you to ask the 
porter rather than me, that sort of question? 1 was putting on my 
cap to receive his majesty. ” 

“ With the address of a madge-howlet, ” said Chiffinch, “ and in 
the meanwhile you gave the cat the cream to keep.” 

“ Indeed, Chiffinch,” said the lady, “ these jaunts to the country 
do render you excessively vulgar ! there is a brutality about your 
very boots! nay, your muslin ruffles, being somewhat soiled, give 
to your knuckles a sort of rural rusticity, as 1 may call it,” 

” It were a good deed,” muttered Chiffinch, (o make both boots 
and knuckles bang the folly and affectation out of thee.” Then 
speaking aloud, he added, like a man who would fain break off an 
argument, by extorting from his adversary a confession that he has 
reason on his side, “ 1 am sure, Kate, you must be sensible that our 
all depends on his majesty’s pleasure.” 

” Leave that to me,” said she; ” 1 know how to pleasure his maj- 
est}'’ better than you can teach me. Do you think his majesty is 
boob}" enough to cry like a schoolboy because his sparrow has flown 
away? His majesty has better taste. I am surprised at you, 
Chiffinch,” she added, drawing herself up, “who were once 
thought to know the points of a fine woman, that you should have 
made such a roaring aOout this country wench. Why, she has not 
even the country quality of being plump as a barn-door fowl, but is 
more like a Dunstable lark, that one must crack bones and all if you 
Avould make a mouthful of it. What signifies whence she came, or 
where she goes? There will be those behind that are much more 


370 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


worthy of his majesty’s condescending attention, even when the 
Duchess of Portsmouth takes the frumps.” 

“ You mean your neighbor, Mistress Nelly,” said her worthy help- 
mate; ” but, Kate, her date is out. Wit she has, let her keep her- 
self warm with it in worse company, for the cant of a gang of 
strollers is not language for a prince’s chamber.”* 

‘‘It is no matter what 1 mean, or whom 1 mean,” said Mrs. 
Chiffinch; ” but 1 tell you, Tom Chiffinch, that you will find your 
master quite consoled for loss of the piece of prudish puritanism that 
you would needs saddle him with; as if the good man were not 
plagued enough with them in Parliament, but you must, forsooth, 
bring them into his very bedchamber.” 

“ Well, Kate,” said Chiffinch, “if a man were to speak all the 
sense of the seven wise masters, a woman would find nonsense 
enough to overwhelm him with; so 1 shall say no more, but that 1 
would to Heaven J may find the king in no worse humor than you 
describe him. 1 am commanded to attend him down the river to the 
Tower to-day, where he is to make some survey of arms and stores. 
They are clever fellows who contrive to keep Rowley from engaging 
in business, for, by my word, he has a turn for it.” 

“ 1 warrant you,” said Chiffinch, the female, nodding, but rather 
to her own figure reflected from a mirror, than to her politic hus- 
band — ‘‘ 1 warrant you we will find means of occupying him that 
will sufficiently fill up his time.” 

‘‘ On my honor, Kate,” said the male Chiffinch, ” 1 find you 
strangely altered, and, to speak truth, grown most extremely opin- 
ionative. 1 shall be happy, if you have good reason for your confi- 
dence.” 

The dame smiled superciliously, but deigned no other answer, un- 
less this wmre one. “ 1 shall order a boat to go upon the Thames to- 
day with the royal party.” 

“ Take care what you do, Kate; there are none dare presume so 
far but women of the first rank. Duchess of Bolton — of Bucking- 
ham — of—” 

‘‘Who cares for a list of names? why may not 1 be as forward as 
the greatest B. amongst your string of them?’ ’ 

“ Nay, faith, thou mayest match the greatest B. in court already,” 
answered Chiffinch; ‘‘so e’en take thy own course of it. But do 
not let Chaubeit forget to get some collation ready and a souper au 
petit coumri, in case it should be commanded for the evening.” 

“ Ay, there your boasted knowledge of court matters begins and 
ends. Chiffinch, Chaubert, and Company;— dissolve that partner- 
ship, and you break Tom Chiffinch fora courtier.” 

‘‘ Amen, Kate,” replied Chiffinch ; ‘‘ and let me tell you, it is as 
safe to rely on another person's fingers as on our own wit. But 1 
must give orders for the water. If you will take the pinnace, there 
are the cloth of -gold cushions in the chapel may serve to cover the 
benches for the day. They are never w^anted where they lie, so you 
may make free with them too.” 

Madam Chiffinch, accordingly mingled with the flotilla which at- 
tended the king on his voyage down the Thames, amongst whom 


* See Note DD. Nell Qwyn. 


I>EVEIIIL OF THE PEAK. 


m 


was the Queen, attended by some of the principal ladies of the 
court. The little plump Cleopatra, dressed to as much advantage as 
her taste could devise, and seated upon her embroidered cushions 
like Venus in her shell, neglected nothing that effrontery and min- 
auderie could perform to draw upon herself some portion of the 
king’s observation; but Charles was not in the vein, and did not 
even pay her the slightest passing attention of any kind, until her 
boatmen having ventured to approach nearer to the queen’s barge 
than etiquette permitted, received a peremptory order to back their 
oars, and fall out of the royal procession. Madam Chiffinch cried 
for spite, and transgressed Solomon’s warning, by cursing the king 
in her heart; but had no better course than to return to Westminster, 
and direct Cbaubert’s preparations for the evening. 

In the meantime, the royal barge paused at the Tower; and, ac- 
companied by a laughing train of ladies and of courtiers, the gay 
monarch made the echoes of the old prison-towers ring with the un- 
wonted sounds of mirth and revelry. As they ascended from the 
river side to the center of the building, where the fine old keep of 
William the Conqueror, called the White Tower, predominates over 
the exterior defenses. Heaven only knows how many gallant jests, 
good or bad, were run on the comparison of his majesty’s state 
prison to that of Cupid, and what killing similes were drawn be- 
tween the ladies’ eyes and the guns of the fortress, which, spoken 
with a fashionable congee, and listened to with a smile from a fair 
lady, formed the fine conversation of the day. 

This gay swarm of flutterers did not, however, attend close on the 
king’s person, though they had accompanied him upon his party on 
the river. Charles, who often formed manly and sensible resolu- 
tions, though he was too easily diverted from them by indolence or 
pleasure, had some desire to make himself personally acquainted 
with the state of the military stores, arms, etc., of which the Tower 
was then, as now, the magazine; and, although he had brought with 
him the usual number of his courtiers, only three or four attended 
him on the scrutiny which he intended. Whilst, therefore, the rest 
of the train amused themselves as they might in other parts of the 
Tower, the king, accompanied by the dukes of Buckingham, Or- 
mond, and one or two others, walked through the well-known hall, 
in which is preserved the most splendid magazine of arms in the 
world, and wliich, though far from exhibiting its present extraordi- 
nary state of perfection, was even then an arsenal worthy of the 
great nation to which it belonged. 

The Duke of Ormond, well known for his services during the 
Great Civil War, was, as we have elsewhere noticed, at present 
rather on cold terms with his sovereign, who nevertheless asked his 
advice on many occasions, and who required it on the present 
amongst others, whQn it was not a little feared, that the Parliament, 
in their zeal for the Protestant religion might desire to take the 
magazine of arms and ammunition under their own exclusive or- 
ders. While Charles sadly hinted at such a termination of the pop- 
ular jealousies of the period, and discussed with Ormond the means 
of resisting or evading it, Buckingham, falling a little behind, 
amused himself with ridiculing the antiquated appearance and em- 
barrassed demeanor of the old warder who attended on the occasion, 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


372 

and who chanced to be the very same that escorted Julian Peveril to 
his present place of confinement. The duke prosecuted his raillery 
with the greater activity, that he found the old man, though re- 
strained by the place and presence, was rather upon the whole testy, 
and disposed to afiiord what sportsmen call play to his persecutor. 
The various pieces of ancient armor, with which the wall was cov- 
ered, afforded the principal source of the duke’s wit, as he insisted 
upon knowing from the old man, who, he said, could best remember 
matters from^^the days of King Arthur downward at the least, the 
history of the different warlike weapons, and anecdotes of the battles 
in which they had been wdelded. The old man oDviously suffered, 
when he was obliged, by repeated questions, to tell the legends 
(often sufficiently absurd) which the tradition of the place had as- 
signed to particular rdics. Far from flourishing his partisan, and 
augmenting the emphasis of his voice, as was and is the prevailing 
fashion of these warlike Ciceroni, it was scarcely possible to extort 
from him a single word concerning those topics on which their in- 
formation is usually overflowing. 

“ Do you know, my friend,” said the duke to him at last, “ 1 be- 
gin to change my mind respecting you. 1 supposed you must have 
served as a Yeoman of the Guard since bluff King Henry’s time, 
and expected to hear something from you about the Field of the 
Cloth of Gold— and 1 thought of asking you the color of Anne Bul- 
len’s breast knot, which cost the Pope three kingdoms; but 1 am 
afraid you are but a novice in such recollections of love and chival- 
ry. Art sure thou didst not creep into thy warlike office from some 
dark shop in the Tower-Hamlets, and that thou hast uot converted 
an unlawful measuring- 3 ’^ard into that glorious halberd? 1 warrant, 
thou caust uot even tell one whom this piece of antique panoply’ per- 
tained to?” 

The duke pointed at random to a cuirass which hung amongst 
others, but was rather remarkable from being better cleansed. 

“ 1 should know that piece of iron,” said the warder bluntly, yet 
with some change in his voice; “for 1 have known a man w ithiu 
side of it who would uot have endured half the fmpertinence I have 
heard spoken to-day.” 

The tone of the old man, as well as the words, attracted the atten- 
tion of Charles and the Duke of Ormond, who were only two steps 
before the speaker. They both stopped^ and turned round; the for 
mer sajung at the same lime— “ How now, sirrah!— what answers 
are these? What man do you speak of?” 

“Of one who is none now,” said the warder, “ whatever he may 
have been,” 

“ The old man surely speaks of himself,” said the Duke of Or- 
mond, closel.y exiiminiug the couutenance^f the warder, which he 
in vain endeavored to turn away. “1 ain sure 1 remember these 
features. Are not you my old friend. Major Colebj'^?” 

“ 1 wish your grace’s memory had been less accurate,” said the 
old man, coloring deeply, and fixing his ej^'es on the ground. 

The king was greatly shocked. “ Good God!” he said, “ the gal- 
lant Major Coleby, who joined iis with his tour sous and a hundred 
and fifty men at Warrington? And is this ail we could do for an 
old Worcester friend?” 


l^EVERIL OF THE PEAK. 373 

The tears rushed tliick into the old man’s eyes as he Said, in bro- 
ken accents, “Never mind me, sire; 1 am well enough here— a 
worn-out soldier rusting among old armor. Where one old cavalier 
is better, there are twenty worse. 1 am sorry your majesty should 
kr\ow any thing of it, since it grieves you.” 

With that kindness, which was a redeeming point ot his char- 
acter, Charles, while the old man was speaking, took the partisan 
from him with his own hand, and put it into that of Buckingham, 
sa3dng, “ What Coleby’s hand has borne, can disgrace neither yours 
nor mine— and you owe him this atonement. Time has been with 
him, that, for less provocation, he would have laid it about jmur ears. ’ ’ 

The duke bowed deeply, but colored with resentment, and took 
an immediate opportunity to place the weapon carelessly against a 
pile ot arms. The king did not observe a contemptuous motion, 
which, perhaps, would not have pleased him, being at the moment 
occupied with the veteran, whom he exhorted to lean upon him, as 
he conveyed him to a seat, permitting no other person to assist him. 
“ Rest there,” he said, “ my brave old friend; and Charles Stewart 
must be poor indeed if you wear that dress an hour longer. You 
look very pale, my good* Coleby, to have had so much color a few 
minutes since. Be not vexed at what Buckingham says, no one 
minds his tolly. You look worse and worse. Come, come, you are 
too much harried by this meeting. Sit still — do not rise— do not at- 
tempt to kneel. 1 command you to repose yourself till 1 have made 
the round of these apartments.” 

The old cavalier stooped his head in token of acquiescence in the 
command of his sovereign, but he raised it not again. The tumultu- 
ous agitation of the moment had been too much for spirits which 
had been long in a state ot depression, and health which* was much 
decayed. When the king and his attendants, after half an hour’s 
absence, returned to the spot where they had left the veteran, they 
found him dead, and already cold, in the attitude of one who has 
fallen easily asleep. The king was dreadfully shocked; and it was 
with a low and faltering voice that he directed the body, in due 
time, to be honorabl}’’ buried in the Chapel of the Tower.* He was 
then silent, until he attained the steps in front of the arsenal, where 
the party in attendance upon his person began to assemble at his ap- 
proach, along with some other persons ot respectable appearance, 
whom curiosity had attracted. 

“ This is dreadful,” said the king. “ We must find some means 
ot relieving the distresses, and rcAvarding the fidelity of our suller- 
ing followers, or posterity will cry fie upon our memory.” 

“ Your majesty has had often such plans agitated in 3^'our council,” 
said Buckingham. 

“ True, George,” said the king. “ I can safely say it is not my 
fault. 1 have thought ot it for years. ” 

“ It cannot be too well considered,” said Buckingham; “ besides, 
cverv yeai makes the task of relief easier.” 

* ‘ True, ” said the Duke of Ormond, “ by diminishing the number of 


* A story of this nature is current in the legends of the Tower. The affect- 
ing circumstances are, I believe, recorded in one of the little manuals which 
are put into the hands of visitors, but are not to be found iu the later editions, 


’ 374 PEA^ERIL OP THE PEAK. 

sufferers. Here is poor old Colebj’’ will no longer be a burden to the 
crown.” 

‘‘You are too severe, ifiy Lord of Ormond,” said the ting, “ and 
should respect the feelings you trespass on. A ou cannot suppose 
that we would have permitted this poor man to hold such a situa- 
tion, had we known of the circumstances?” 

‘‘ For God’s sake, then, sire,” said the Duke of Oimond, ‘‘ turn 
your eyes, which have just rested on the corpse of one oid friend, 
upon the distresses of others. Here is the valiant old Sir Geoffrey 
Peveril of the Peak, who fought through the whole war, wherever 
blows were going, and was the last man, 1 believe, in England, who 
laid down his arms — Here is his son, of whom 1 have the highest 
accounts, as a gallant of spirit, accomplishments, and courage. 
Here is the unfortunate House of Deib}'’ — for pity’s sake, interfere 
in behalf of these victims, whom the folds of this hydra-plot have 
entangled, in order to crush them to death — rebuke the fiends that 
are seeking to devour their lives, and disappoint the harpies that are 
gaping for their property. This very day seven-night the unfortu- 
nate family, father and son, are to be brought upon trial for crimes 
of which they are as guiltless, 1 boldly pronounce, as any who 
stand in this presence. For God’s sake, sire, let us hope that, 
should the prejudices of the people condemn them, as it has done 
others, you will at last step between the blood-hunters and their 
prey.” 

The king looked, as he really was, exceedingly perplexed. 

Buckingham, between whom and Ormond there existed a con- 
stant and ""almost mortal quarrel, interfered to effect a diversion in 
Charles’s favor. ” Y'our majesty’s royal benevolence,” he said, 
“ needs never want exercise while the Duke of Ormond is near your 
person. He has his sleeve cut in the old and ample fashion, that he 
may always have store of ruined cavaliers stowed in it to produce at 
demand, rare old raw-boned boys, with Malmsey noses, bald heads, 
spindle shanks, and merciless histories of Edirehill and Naseby.” 

” My sleeve is, 1 dare say, of an antique cut,” said Ormond, look- 
ing fuil at the duke; ‘‘ but 1 pin neither bravoes nor ruffians upon 
it, my Lord of Buckingham, as 1 see fastened to coats of the new 
mode.” 

” That is a little too sharp for our presence, my lord,” said tlic 
king. 

‘‘ Not if 1 make my words good,” said Ormond. “ My Lord of 
Buckingham, will you name the man you spoke to as you left the 
boat?” 

” 1 spoke to no one,” said the duke, hastily — “ nay, 1 mistake, 1 
remember a fellow whispered in my ear, that one, who 1 thought 
had left London, was still lingering in town. A person whom 1 
had business with.” 

“ Was yon the messenger?” said Ormond, singling out from the 
crowd who stood in the court-yard a tall dark-looking man, muffled 
in a large cloak, wearing a broad shadowy black beaver hat, with a 
long sword of the Spanish fashion — the very colonel, in short, whom 
Buckingham had dispatched in quest of Christian, with the inten- 
tion of detaining him in the country. 

When Buckingham’s eyes had followed the direction of Ormond’s 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 375 

finger he eould not help blushing so deeply as to attract the king’s 
attention.* 

What new frolic is this, George?” he said. “ Gentlemen, bring 
that fellow forward. On my life, a truculent-looking caitiff. Hark 
ye, friend, who are ybu? If an honest man, Nature has forgot to 
label it upon your countenance. Does none here know him? 

‘ With every symptom of a knave complete. 

If he be honest, he’s a devilish cheat.’ ” 

“ He is well known to many, sire,” replied Ormond; “and that 
he walks in this area with his neck safe, and his limbs unshackled, 
is an instance, amongst many, that we live under the sway of the 
most merciful Prince of Europe.” 

“ Oddsfish! who is the man, mj^ lord duke?” said the king. 
“ Your grace talks mysteries — Buckingham blushes— and the rogue 
himself is dumb.” 

” That honest gentleman, please your majesty,” replied the Duke 
of Ormond, “whose modesty makes him mute, though it cannot 
make him blush, is the notorious Colonel Blood, as he calls him- 
self, whose attempt to possess himself of your majesty’s royal crown 
took place at no very distant date, in this very Tower of London.” 

“ That exploit is not easily forgotten,” said the king; “ but that 
the fellow lives, shows your grace’s clemency as well as mine.” 

“ 1 cannot deny that 1 was in his hands, sire,” said Ormond, “ and 
had certainly been murdered by him, had he chosen to take my life 
on the spot, instead of destining me — 1 thank him for the honor — 
to be hanged at Tyburn. 1 had certainly been sped, it he had 
thought me worth knife or pistol, or any thing short of the cord. 
Look at Him, sire! If the rascal dared, he would say at this mo- 
ment, like Caliban in the play, ‘ Ho, ho, 1 would 1 had done it!’ ” 

“ Wh}’-, oddsfish!” answered the king, “ he hath a villainous sneer, 
my lord, which seems to say as much ; but, my lord duke, we have 
pardoned him, and so has your grace.” 

“ It would ill have become me,” said the Duke of Ormond, “ to 
have been severe in prosecuting an attempt on niy poor life, when 
your majesty was pleased to remit his more outrageous and insolent 
attempt upon your royal crown. But 1 must conceive it as a piece 
of supreme insolence on the part of this bloodthirsty bully by whom- 
soever he may be now backed, to appear in the I'ower, which was 
the theater of one of his villainies, or before me, who was well-nigh 
the victim of another.” 

“It shall be amended in future,” said the king. “Hark ye, 
sirrah Blood, if you again presume to thrust yourself in the way you 
have done but now, I will have the hangman’s knife and your 
knavish ears made acquainted.” 

Blood bowed, and, with a coolness of impudence which did his 
nerves great honor, he said he had only come to the Tower acci- 
dentahy, to communicate with a particular frieud on business of im- 
portance. “ iVIy Lord Duke of Buckingham,” he said, “ knew he 
had no other intentions.” 

“ Get you gone, you scoundrelly cut-throat,” said the duke, as 


* See Note EE. Colonel Blood. 


376 PEVEKIL OE THE PEAK. 

naucli impatieni of Colonel Blood’s claim of acquaintance, as a 
town-rake of the low and blackguard companions of his midnight 
rambles, when they accost him in dajdight amidst better company; 
“ if you dare to quote my name again, 1 will have you thrown into 
the Thames.” 

Blood, thus repulsed, turned round with the most insolent com- 
posure, and walked away down from the parade, all men looking 
at him, as at some strange and monstrous prodig}'', so much was he 
renowned for daring and desperate villainy. Some even foBowed 
him, to have a better survey of the notorious Colonel Blood, like the 
Sfnaller tribe of birds which keep fluttering round an owl when he 
appears in the light of the sun. But as, in the latter case, these 
thoughtless flutterers are careful to keep out of reach of the beak 
and daws of the bird of Minerva, so none of those who followed 
and gazed on Blood as something ominous, cared to bandy looks 
with him, or to endure and return the lowering and deadly glances 
which he shot from time to time on those who pressed nearest to 
him. He stalked on in this manner, like a daunted, yet sullen wolf, 
afraid to stop, yet unwilling to fly, until he reached the Traitor’s 
gate, and getting on board a sculler which waited for him, he disap- 
peared from their eyes. 

Charles would tain have obliterated all recollection of his appear- 
ance, by the observation, “ It were shame that such a reprobate 
scoundrel should be the subject of discord between two noblemen 
of distinction;” and he recommended to the Dukes of Buckingham 
and Ormond to join hands, and forget a misunderstanding which 
rose on so unworthy a subject. 

Buckingham answered carelessly, “ That the Duke of Ormond’s 
honored white hairs were a sufficient apology for his making the 
first overtures to a reconciliation,” and he held out his hand accord- 
ingly. But Ormond only bowed in return, and said, “ The king 
had no cause to expect that the Court would be disturbed by his 
personal resentments, since time would not yield him back twenty 
years, nor the grave restore his gallant son Ossory. As to the ruffian 
who had intruded himself there, he was obliged to him, since, by 
showing that his majesty’s clemency extended even to the very 
worst of criminals, he strengthened his hopes of obtaining the king’s 
favor for such of his innocent friends as were no'vV in prison, and in 
danger, from the odious charges brought against them on the score 
of the Popish Plot. ” 

The king made no other answer to this insinuation than by direct- 
ing that the company should embark for their return to Whitehall; 
and thus took leave of the officers of the Tower who were in attend- 
ance, with one of those well-turned compliments to their discharge 
of duty, which no man knew better how to express ; and issued at 
the same time strict and anxious orders tor protection and defense 
of the important fortress confided to them, and all which it con- 
tained. 

Before he parted with Ormond on their arrival at Whitehall, he 
turaed round to him, as one who has made up his resolution, and 
said, “ Be satisfied, my lord duke — our friends’ case shall be looked 
to.” 

In the same evening the Attorney- General, and North, the Lord 


PEVETITL OJ- TJIE PEAK. 


377 

Chief-Justice of the Common Pleas, had orders with all secrecy, to 
meet his majesty that evening on especial matters of state, at the 
apartments of Chiffinch, the center of allaftairs, whether of gallantry 
or business. 


^ CHAPTER XLl. 

I Yet, Corah, thou shalt from oblivion pass; 

Erect thyself, thou monumental brass, 

High as the serpent of thy metal made. 

While nations stand secure beneath thy shade. 

Absalom and Achitophel. 

The morning which Charles had spent in visiting the Tower, had 
been very differently employed by those unhappy individuals, whom 
their bad fate, and the singular temper of the times, had made the 
innocent tenants of that state prison, and who had received otlicial 
notice that they were to stand their trial in the Court of Queen’s 
bench at "Westminster, on tlie seventh succeeding day. The stout 
old cavalier at first only railed at the officer for spoiling his break- 
fast with the news, but evinced great feeling when he was told that 
Julian was to be put under the same indictment. 

We intend to dwell only veiy generally on the nature of their trial, 
which corresponded, in the outline, with almost all those which took 
place during the prevalence of the Popish Plot. Thai is, one or two 
infamous and perjured evidences, whose profession of common in- 
formers had become frightfully lucrative, made oath to the 
prisoners’ having expressed themselves interested in the great con- 
federacy of the Catholics. A number of others brought forward 
facts or suspicions, affecting the character of the parties as honest 
Protestants and good subjects; and betwixt the direct and presump- 
tive evidence, enough was usually extracted for justifying, to a cor- 
rupted court and perjured jury, the fatal verdict of Guilty. 

The fury of the people had, however, now begun to pass away, 
exhausted even by its own violence. The English nation differs 
from all others, indeed even from those of the sister kingdoms, in 
being very easily sated with punishment, even when they suppose it 
most merited. Other nations are like the tamed tiger, which, when 
once its native appetite for slaughter is indulged in one instance, 
rushes on in promiscuous ravages. But the English public have al- 
ways rather resembled what is told of the sleuth-dog, which, eager, 
fierce, and clamorous in pursuit of his piey, desists from it so soon 
as blood is sprinkled upon his path. 

Men’s minds w^ere now beginning to cool— the character of the 
witnesses was more closely sifted — their testimonies did not in all 
cases tally — and a wholesome suspicion began to be entertained of 
men, who would nevgr say they had made a full discovery of all 
they knew, hut avowedly reserved some points of evidence to bear 
on future trials. 

The king also, who had lain passive during the first burst of popu- 
lar fury, was now beginning to bestir himself, which produced a 
marked effect on the conduct of the crown counsel, and even the 
judges. Sir George Wakeman had been acquitted in spite of '^ates’s 
direct testimony; and public attention was strongly excited oic»PWL’n- 


I>EVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


87^8 

ing the event ot the next trial ; which chanced to be that of the 
Peverils, father and son, with whom, 1 know not from what con- 
catenation, little Hudson the dwarf was placed at the bar of the court 
of king’s bench. 

It was a piteous siglit to behold a father and son, who had been so 
long separated, meet under circumstances so melancholy; and many 
tears were shed, when the majestic old man— for such he was, 
though now broken with years— folded his son to his bosom, with a 
mixtme ot joy, affection, and a bitter anticipation of the event of 
the impending trial. There was a feeling in the court that for a mo- 
ment overcame every prejudice and party feeling. Many spectators 
shed tears; and there was even alow moaning, as of those who weep 
aloud. 

Such as felt themselves sufficiently at ease to remark the conduct 
of poor little (Geoffrey Hudson, who was scarcely observed amid the 
preponderating interest created by his companions in misfortune, could 
not but notice a strong degree of mortification on the part of that 
diminutive gentleman. He had soothed his great mind by the 
thoughts of playing the character which he was called on to sustain, 
in a manner which shoula be long remembered in that place; and on 
his entrance, had saluted the numerous spectators, as well as the 
coirrt, with a cavalier air, which he meant should express grace, 
high-breeding, perfect coolness, with a noble disregard to the issue 
of their proceedings. But his little person was so obscured and 
jostled aside, on the meeting of the father and son, who had been 
brought in different boats from the Tower, and placed at the bar at 
the same moment, that his distress and his dignity were alike thrown 
into the backgrouna, and attracted neither sympathy nor admira- 
tion. 

The dwarf’s wisest way to attract attention, would have been to 
remain quiet, when so remarkable an exterior would certainly have 
received in its turn the share of public notice which he so eagerly 
coveted. But when did personal vanity listen to the suggestions of 
prudence? Our impatient friend scrambled, with some difficulty, 
on the top ot the bench intended for his seat; and there, “ paining 
himself to stand a-tiptoe,” like Chaucer’s gallant Sir Chaunticlere, 
he challenged the notice of the audience as he stood bowing and 
claiming acquaintance of his namesake Sir Geoffrey the larger, with 
whose shoulders, notwithstanding his elevated situation, lie was 
scarcely yet uoon a level. 

The taller knight, whose mind was occupied in a very different 
manner, took no notice of these advances upon the dwarf’s part, 
but sat down with the determination rather to die on the snot than 
evince any symptoms of weakness before Roundheads, and Presby- 
terians; under which obnoxious epithets, being too old-fashioned to 
find out party designations ot newer date, he. comprehended all per- 
sons concerned in his present trouble. 

By Sir Geoffrey the larger ’s change of position, his face was thus 
brought on a level wdth that of Sir Geoffrey the less, who had an 
opportunity of pulling him by the cloak. He of Martindale Castle, 
rather mechanically than consciously, turned his head toward the 
large wrinkled visage, which, struggling between an assumed air of 
easy importance, and an anxious desire to be noticed, was grimacing 


PEYEIUL OF THE PEAK. 


379 


within a yard of him. But neither the singular physiognomy, the 
nods and stniles of greeting and recognition into which it was 
wreathed, nor the strange little form by which it was supported, 
had at that moment the power of exciting any recollections in the 
old knight’s mind; and having stared for a moment at the poor little 
man, his bulky namesake turned away his head without further 
notice. 

Julian Peveril, the dwarf’s more recent acquaintance, had, even 
amid his own anxious feelings, room for sympathy with those of 
his little fellow-sufferer. As s(5bn as he discovered that he was at 
the same terrible bar with himself, although he could not conceive 
how their causes came to be conjoined, he acknowledged him by a 
hearty shake of the hand, which the old man returned with affected 
dignity and real gratitude. “ Worthy youth,” he said, ‘‘ thy pres- 
ence is restorative, like the nepenthe of Homer, even in this syncope 
of our mutual fate. 1 am concerned to see that your father hath not 
the same alacrity of soul as that of ours, which are lodged within 
smaller compass; and that he hath forgotten an ancient comrade and 
fellow- soldier, who now stands beside him to perform, perhaps, 
their last campaign.” 

Julian brietiy replied, that his father had much to occupy him. 
But the little man — wiio, to do him justice, cared no more (in his 
own phrase) for imminent danger or death, than he did for tlie 
puncture of a flea’s proboscis — did not so easily renounce the secret 
object of his ambition, which was to acquire the notice of the large 
and lofty Sir Geoffrey Peveril, who, being at least three inches taller 
than his son, was in so far possessed of that superior excellence, 
which the poor dw^arf, :n his secret, soul, valued before all other 
distinctions, although, in his conversation, he was constantly de- 
preciating it. ‘‘Good comrade and namesake,” he proceeded, 
stretching out his hand, so as again to reach the elder Peveril’s 
cloak, “ 1 forgive your want of reminiscence, seeing it is long since 
1 saw you at Naseby, fighting as if you had as many arms as the 
fabled Briareus.” 

The Knight of Martin dale, w’ho had again turned his head toward 
the little man, and had listened, as if endeavoring to make some- 
thing out of his discourse, here interrupted him with a peevish 
” Pshaw!” 

” Pshaw!” repeated Sir Geoffrey the less; “ Pshaw is an expres- 
sion of slight esteem— nay of contempt— in all languages; and w'ere 
this a befltting ^ace— ” • 

But the judges had now taken their places, the criers called silence, 
and the stern voice of the lord chief justice (the notorious Scroggs) 
demanded what the otflcers meant by permitting the accused to com 
municate together in open court. 

It may here be observed, tliat this celebrated personage was, upon 
the present occasion, at a great loss how to proceed. A calm, dig- 
nified, judicial demeanor was at no time the characteristic of his 
otflcial conduct. He always ranted and roared either on the one 
side or the other; and of late, he had been much unsettled which 
side to take, being totally incapable of any thing resembling im- 
partiality. At the first trials for the Plot, when the whole stream of 
popularity ran against the accused, no one had been so loud ^ 


380 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Sci’Oggs; to attempt to impeach the character of Oates or Becllowe, 
or any other leading witnesses, he treated as a crime more heinous 
than it would have been to blaspheme the Gospel on which they^ had 
been sworn — it was a stifling of the Plot, or discrediting of the king’s 
witnesses — a crime not greatly, it at all, short of high treason against 
the king himself. 

But, of late, a new light had begun to glimmer upon the imder- 
standing of this interpreter of the laws. Sagacious in the signs of 
the times he began to see that the tide was turning; and that coui t 
favor at least, and probably popular opinion also, were likel}'*, in a 
short lime, to declare against the witnesses, and in favor of the 
accused. 

The opinion which Scroggs had hitherto entertained of the high 
respect in which Shaftesbury, the patron of the Plot, was held by 
Charles, had been definitely shaken by a whisper from his brother 
North to the following effect: “ His lordship has no more interest 
at court than your footman.” 

This notice, from a sure hand, and received but that morning, had 
put the judge to a sore dilemma; for, however indifferent to actual 
consist enc}'', he was most anxious to save appearances. He could 
not but recollect how violent he had been on former occasions in 
favor of these prosecutions; and being sensible at the same time that 
the credit of the witnesses, though shaken in the opinion of the more 
judicious, was, amongst the bulk of the people out of doors, as strong 
as ever, he had a difficult part to play. His conduct, therefore, dur- 
ing the whole trial, resembled the appearance of a vessel about to 
go upon another tack, when her sails are shivering in the wind, ere 
tliey have yet caught the impulse which is to send her forth in a 
new direction. In" a word, he was so uncertain which side it was 
his interest to favor, that he might be said on that occasion to have 
come nearer a state of total impartiality than he was ever capable of 
attaining, whether before or afterward. This was shown bj'’ his 
bullying now the accused, and now the witnesses, like a mastiff too 
much irritated to lie still without baying, but uncertain whom he 
shall first bite. 

The indictment was then read; and Sir Geoffrey Peveril heard, 
with some composure, the first part of it, which stated him to have 
placed his son in the household of the Countess of Derby, a recusant 
Papist, for the purpose of aiding the shorrible and blood-thirsty 
Popish Plot — with having had arms an(J animunitk)n concealed in 
his house — and with receiving a blank commission from ihe Lord 
Stafford, who had suffered death on account of the Plot. But when 
the charge went on to state that he had communicated for the same 
purpose with Geoffrey Hudson, sometimes called Sir Geoffrey Hud- 
son, now, or formerly, in the domestic service of the Queen Dowa- 
ger, he looked at his companion as if he suddenly recalled him to 
remembrance, and broke out impatiently, ” These lies are too gross 
to require a moment’s consideration. 1 might have had enough of 
intercourse, though in nothing but rvhat w^as loyal and innocent, 
with my noble kinsman, the late Lord Stafford— 1 will call him so 
in spite of his misfortunes— and with my wife’s relation, the 
Honorable Countess of Derby. But what likelihood can there be that 
1 should have colleagued with a decrepit buffoon, with whom I never 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


381 

had an instant’s communication, save once at an Easter feast, when 
I whistled a hornpipe, as he danced on a trencher, to amuse the com- 
pany?” 

The rage of the poor dwarf brought tears in his eyes, while, with 
an affected laugh, he said, that instead of those juvenile and festive 
passages. Sir Geoffrey Peveril might have remembered his charging 
along with him at 'W iggan-lane. 

” On my word,” said Sir Geoffrey, after a moment’s recollection, 
“1 will do you justice. Master Hudson — 1 believe you were there — 
1 think 1 heard you did good servi(;e. But you will allow you might 
have been near one without his seeing you.” 

A sort of titter ran through the court at the simplicity of the 
larger Sir Geoffrey’s testimony, which the dwarf endeavored to con- 
trol, by standing on his tiptoes, and looking fiercely around, as if to 
admonish the laughers that they indulged their mirth at their own 
peril. But perceiving that this only excited further scorn, he com- 
posed himself into a semblance of careless contempt, observing, with 
a smile, that no one feared the glance of a chained lion; a magnifi- 
cent simile, which rather increased than diminished the mirth of 
those who heard it. 

Against Julian Peveril there failed not to be charged the ag- 
gravated fact, that he had been bearer of letters between the Count- 
ess of Derby and other Papists and priests, engaged in the universal 
treasonable conspiracy of the Catholics; and the attack of the house 
at Moultrassie Hall — with his skft’mish with Chitfinch, and his as- 
sault, as it was termed, on the person of John Jenkins, servant to 
the Duke of Buckingham, were all narrated at length, as so man)^ 
open and overt acts of treasonable irnport. To this charge Peveril 
contented himself with pleading — Not Guilty. 

His little companion was not satisfied with so simple a plea; for 
when he heard it read, as a part of the charge applying to him, that 
he had received from an agent of the Plot a blank commission as 
colonel of a regiment of grenadiers, he replied, in wrath and scorn, 
that if Goliath of Gath had come to him with such a proposal, and 
proffered him the command of the whole sons of Anak in a body, 
he should never have had occasion or opportunity to repeat the 
temptation to another. ” 1 would have slain him,” said the little 
man of loyalty, ” even where he stood.” 

The charge was stated anew by the counsel for the crown; and 
forth came the notorious Dr. Oates, rustling in the full silken 
canonicals of priesthood, for it was at a time when he affected no 
small dignity of exterior decoration and deportment. 

This singular man, who, aided by the obscure intrigues of the 
Catholics themselves, and the fortuitous circumstance of Godfrey’s 
murder, had been able to cram down the public throat such a mass 
of absurdity as his evidence amounts to, had no other talent for im- 
posture than an impudence which set conviction and shame alike at 
defiance. A man of sense or reflection, by trying to give his plot an 
appearance of more probability, would most likely have failed, as 
wise men often do in addressing the multitude, from not daring to 
calculate upon the prodigious extent of their credulity, especially 
where the figments presented to them involve the fearful and the 
terrible. . 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


382 

Oates was by nature choleric; and the credit he had acquired 
made him insolent and conceited. Even his exterior was portent- 
ous. A fleece ot white periwig showed a most uncouth visage, of 
great length, having the mouth, as the organ by use of which he 
was to rise to eminence, placed in the very center of the countenance, 
and exhibiting to the astonished spectator as much chin below as 
there was nose and brow above the aperture. His pronunciation, 
too, was after a conceited fashion of his own, in which he accented 
the vowels in a manner altogether peculiar to himself. 

This notorious ])ersonage, such as we have described him, stood 
forth on the present trial, and delivered his astonishing testimony 
concerning the existence of a Catholic Plot for the subversion ot the 
government and murder of the king, in the same general outline in 
which it may befound m every English history. But as the doctor 
always had in reserve some special piece of evidence affecting those 
innnediately on trial, he was pleased, on the present occasion, deeply 
to inculpate the Countess of Derby. “ He had seen,” as he said, 
” that honorable lady when he was at the Jesuits’ College at tr^aint 
Omer’s. She had sent for him to an inn, or auherge, as it was there 
termed— the sign of the Golden Lamb; and had ordered him to 
breakfast in the same room wdth her ladyship; and afterward told 
him, that, knowing he- was trusted by the Fathers of the Society, 
she was determined that he should have a share of her secrets also; 
and therewithal, that she drew from her bosom a broad sharp-pointed 
knife, such as butchers kill sheepVith, and demanded of him what 
he thought ot it for the purpose ; and when he, the witness, said for 
what purpose, she rapped him on the fingers with her fan, called him 
a dull fellow; and said it was designed To kill the king wdth.” 

Here Sir Geoffrey Peveril could no longer refrain his indignation 
and surprise. “ Mercy of Heaven!” he said, “ did ever one hear of 
ladies of qualitv carrying butchering knives about them, and telling 
every scurvy companion she meant to kill the king with them? 
Gentlemen of the jury, do but think if this is reasonable— though, it 
the villain could prove by any honest evidence, that my Lad}^ of 
Derby ever let such a scum as himself come to speech ot her X would 
believe all he can say. ” 

” Sir Geoffrey,” said the judge, ” rest you quiet— you must not 
fly out— passion helps you not here— the doctor must be suffered to 
proceed.” 

Dr. Oates went on to state, how the lady complained of the wrongs 
the House of Derby had sustained from the king, and the oppression 
ot her religion, and boasted of the schemes of the Jesuits and semi- 
nary priests; and how they would be furthered by her noble kinsman 
of the House of Stanley. He finally averred that both the countess 
and the fathers of the seminary abroad, founded much upon the 
talents and courage of Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son— the latter 
of whom w^as a member of her family. Of Hudson, he only recol- 
lected of having heard one of the fathers say, that although but a 
dwarf in stature, he would prove a giant in the cause of the Church.” 

When he had ended his evidence, there was a pause, until the 
judge, as if tire thought had suddenly occurred to him, demanded 
of Dr. Oates, whether he had ever mentioned’' the name ot the 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 383 

Countess of Derby in any of the previous informations which he had 
lodged before the priv}'- council, and elsewhere, upon this affair. 

Oates seemed rather surprised at the question, and colored with 
anger, as he answered, in his peculiar mode of pronunciation, 
“ Whoy, no, maay laard,” 

“ And pray, doctor,” said the judge, “ how came so great a re- 
vealer of mysteries as you have lately proved to have suffered so 
material a circumstance as the accession of this powerful family to 
the Plot to have remained undiscovered?” 

” Maay laard,” said Oates, with much effrontery, ‘‘aye do not 
come here to have my evidence questioned as touching the Plaat.” 

” 1 do not question your evidence, doctor,” said Scroggs, for the 
time was not arrived that he dared treat him roughly; ‘‘ nor do 1 
doubt the existence of the Plaat, since it is your pleasure to swear 
to it. 1 would only have you, for your own sake, and the satisfac- 
tion of all good Protestants, to explain why you have kept back such 
a weighty point of information from the king and country.” 

‘‘ Maay laard,” said Oates, “ 1 will tell you a pretty fable.” 

‘‘ 1 hope,” answered the judge, ” it may" be the first and last which 
you shall tell in this place.” 

‘‘ Maay laard, ” continued Oates, “there was once a faux, who 
having to carry a goose over a f razen river, and being afraid the aice 
would not bear him and his booty, did caarry aaver a staane, ray 
laard, in the first instance, to prove the strength of the aice.” 

“‘So your former evidence was but the stone, and now, for the 
first time, you have brought us the goose?” said Sir William 
Scroggs; “ to tell us this, doctor, is to make geese of the court and 
jury.” 

“ 1 desoire your hardship’s honest construction,”- said Oates, who 
saw the current changing against him, but was determined to pay 
the score with effrontery. “ All meuknawat what coast and praice 
1 have given my evidence, which has been always, under Gaad, the 
means of awakening this poor naation to the dangerous state in 
which it staunds. "^Blany here knaw that I have been obliged to 
faartify my ladging at Whitehall against the blood}’^ Papists. It 
was not to be thought that 1 should have brought all the story out 
at aance. 1 think your wisdom would have advised me otherwise. ” * 

“ Nay, doctor,” said the judge, “ it is not for me to direct you in 
this affair; and it is for the jury to believe you or not; and as for 
myself, 1 sit here to do justice to both— the jury have heard your 
answer to my question.” 

Dr. Oates retired from the witness-box reddening like a turkey- 
cock, as one totally unused to liave such accounts questioned as he 
chose to lay before the courts of justice; and there was, perhaps, for 
the first time, amongst the counsel and solicitors, as well as the tem 
plars and students of laviT there present, a murmur, distinct and 

* It was on such terms that Dr. Oates was pleased to claim the extraordinary 
privilege of dealing out the information which he chose to communicate to a 
court of justice. The only sense in which his story of the fox, stone, and 
goose, could be applicable, is by supposing, that he was determined to ascer- 
tain the extent of his countrymen’s credulity before supplying it with a full 
meal. 


384 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

audible, unfavorable to the character of the great father of the Pop- 
ish Plot. 

ilverett and Dangerfield, -with whom the reader is already ac- 
quainted, were then called in succession to sustain the accusation. 
They were subordinate informers— a sort of under -spur-leathers, as 
the cant term went —who followed the path of Oates, with all defer- 
ence to his superior genius and invention, and made their own fictions 
chime in and harmonize with his, as well as their talents could de- 
vise. But as their evidence had at no time received the full cre- 
dence into which the impudence of Oates had cajoled the public, so 
the}'' now began to fall into discredit rather more hastily than their 
prototype, as the superadded turrets of an ill-constructed building 
are naturally the first to give way. 

It was in vain tliat Everett, with the precision of a hypocrite, and 
Dangerfield, with the audacity of a bully, narrated, with added cir- 
cumstances of suspicion and criminality, their meeting with Julian 
Peveril in Liverpool, and again at Martindale Castle. It was in vain 
they described the arms and accouterments which they pretended to 
have discovered in old Sir Geoffrey’s possession ; and that they gave 
a most dreadful account of the escape of the younger Peveril from 
Moultrassie Hall by means of an armed force. 

The jury listened coldly, and it was visible that they were but little 
moved by the accusation; especially as the judge, always professing 
his belief in the Plot, and his zeal for the Protestant religion, was 
ever and anon reminding them that presumptions were no proofs — 
that hearsay was no evidence— that those who made a trade of dis- 
covery were likely to aid their researches by invention — and that 
without doubting the guilt of the unfortunate persons at the bar, he 
would gladl}^ hear some evidence brought against them of a different 
nature. “ Here we are told of a riot, and an escape achieved by the 
younger Peveril, at the house of a grave and worthy magistrate, 
known, I think, to most ot us. Why, Master Attorney, bring ye 
not Master Bridgenorth himself to prove the fact, or all his house- 
hold, it it be necessary ? A rising in arms is an affair over public to 
be left on the hearsay tale of these two men — though Heaven forbid 
1 should suppose they speak one word more than they believe ! They 
are the witnesses for the king— and, what is equally dear to us, the 
Protestant religion — and witnesses against a most foul and heathen- 
ish Plot. On the other nand, here is a worshipful old knight, for 
such 1 must suppose him to be, since he has bled often in battle for 
the king— such, 1 must say, i suppose him to be, until he is proved 
otherwise. And here is his son, a hopeful young gentleman — we 
must see that they have right. Master Attorney.” 

” Unquestionably, my lord,” answered the attorney. “ God for- 
bid else! But we will make out these matters against these unhappy 
gentlemen in a manner more close, if you lordship will permit us to 
bring in our evidence.” 

” Go on. Master Attorney,” said the judge, throwing himself back 
in his seat. “ Heaven forbid 1 hinder proving the king’s accusation! 
1 only say, what you know as well as 1, that non apimrentibus et 
non exist entibus eadem ent ratio.” 

“We shall then call Master Bridgenorth, as your lordship advises, 
who I think is in waiting. ” 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 385 

No!” answered a voice from the crowd, apparently that of a 
female; “ he is too wise and loo honest to be here.” 

The voice was distinct as that of Lady Fairfax, when she expressed 
herself to a similar effect on the trial of Charles the First; but the 
researches which were made on the present occasion to discover the 
speaker were unsuccessful. 

After the slight confusion occasioned by this circumstance was 
abated, the attorney, who had been talking aside with the conductors 
of the piosecution, said, ‘‘Whoever favored us with that informa- 
tion, my lord, had good reason for what they said. Master Bridge- 
north has become, lam told, suddenly invisible since this morning.” 

” Look you there now. Master Attorney,” said the judge — ” This 
comes of not keeping the crown witnesses together and in readiness 
—I am sure 1 cannot help the consequences.” 

“ Nor 1 either, my lord,” said the attorney, pettishly. “ I could 
have proved by this worshipful gentleman. Master Justice Bridge- 
north, the ancient friendship betwixt this party. Sir Geoffrey Peveril, 
and the Countess of Derby, of whose doings and intentions Dr. 
Oates has given such a deliberate evidence. 1 could have proved his 
having sheltered her in his castle against a process of law, and res- 
cued her, by force of arms, from this very Justice Bridgenorth, not 
without actual violence. Moreover, 1 could have proved against 
young Peveril the whole affray charged upon him by the same 
worshipf 111 evidence. ’ ’ 

Here the judge stuck his thumbs into his girdle, which was a 
favorite attitude of his on such occasions, and exclaimed, “ Pshaw, 
pshaw. Master Attorney! Tell me not that you could have proved 
this, and you could have proved that, or that, or this— Prove what 
you will, but let it be through the mouths of your evidence. Men are 
not to be licked out of their lives by the rough side of a lawyer’s 
tongue.” 

“"Nor is a foul Plot to be smothered,” said the attorney, “ for all 
the haste your lordship is in. 1 cannot call Master Chifiinch neither, 
as he is employed on the king’s especial affairs, as 1 am this instant 
certiorated from the court at Whitehall.” 

“ Produce the papers, then. Master Attorney, of which this young 
man is said to be the bearer,” said the judge. 

“ They are before the privy council, my lord.” 

“ Then why do you found on them here?” said the judge—” this 
is something like trifling with the court.” 

“ Since your lordship gives it that name,” said the attorney, sitting 
down in a huff, “ you rnay manage the cause as you will.” 

“ If you do not bring more evidence, 1 pray you to charge the 
jury,” said the judge. / 

“1 shall not take the trouble to do so,” said the croWn counsel. 
“ 1 see plainly how the matter is to go.” 

“ Nay, but be better advised,” said Scroggs. “Consider, your 
case is but half proved respecting the two Peverils, and doth not 
pinch on the little man at all, saving that Dr. Oates said that he was 
in a certain case to prove a giant, which seems no very probable 
Popish miracle.” 

This sally occasioned a laugh in the court, which the attorney- 
general seemed to take in great dudgeon. 

18 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


386 

“Master Attorney,” said Oates, who always interfered in the 
management of these lawsuits, “ this is a plain and absolute giving- 
away of the cause— 1 must needs say it, a mere stoifling of the 
Plaat.” 

“ Then the devil who bred it may blow wund into it again, if he 
lists,” answered the attorney- general; and, flinging down his biief, 
he left the court, as in a huff with all who were concerned in the 
affair. 

The judge having obtained silence— for a murmur arose in the 
court when the counsel for the prosecution thresv up his brief — be- 
gan to charge the jury, balancing, as he had done throughout the 
whole day, the different opinions by which he seemed alternately 
swayed. He protested on his salvation that he had no more doubt 
of the existence of tlie horrid and damnable conspiracy called the 
Popish Plot, than he had of the treachery of Judas Iscariot; and 
that he considered Oates as the instrument under Providence of pre- 
serving the nation from all the miseries of his majesty’s assassina- 
tion, and of a second 8aint Bartholomew, acted in the streets of 
London. But then he stated it was the candid construction of the 
law of England, that the worse the crime, the more strong should be 
the evidence. Here was the case of accessories tried, whilst their 
principal — for such he should call the Countess of Derby — was un- 
convicted and at large; and for Dr. Oates, he had but spoke of mat- 
ters which personally applied to that noble lady, whose words, if she 
used such in passion, touching aid which she expected in some 
treasonable matters from these Peverils, and from her kinsmen, or 
her son's kinsmen, of the House of Stanley, may have been but a 
burst of female resentment — dulcis Amaryllidis ira, as the poet hath, 
it. Who knoweth but Dr. Oates did mistake — he being a gentleman 
of a comely countenance and easy demeanor — this same rap with the 
fan as a chastisement for lack of courage in the Catholic cause,, 
when, peradventure, it was otherwise meant, as Popish ladies will 
put, it is said, such neophytes- and youthful candidates for orders 
to many severe trials. “ 1 speak these things jocularly,” said the 
judge, “ having no wish to stain the reputation either of the honor- 
able countess or the reverend doctor; only I think the bearing be- 
tween them may have related to something short of high treason. 
As for what the attorney-general’hathfset forth of rescues and force,, 
and 1 wot not wnat, sure I am, that in a civil country, when such 
things happen, such things may be proved; and that you and I, 
gentlemen, are not to take them for granted gratuitously. Touch- 
ing this otlier prisoner, this Galfndus minimus, he must needs say, * 
he continued, “ he could not discover even a shadow of suspicion 
-against him. W as it to be thought so abortive a creature would 
thrust himself into depths of policy, far less into stratagems of war? 
They had but to look at him to conclude the contrary — the creature 
was, from his age, titter for the grave than a conspiracy — and by his 
size and appearance, for the inside of a raree-show, than the mys- 
teries of a plot.” 

The dwarf here broke in upon the judge by force of screaming, to 
assure him that he had been, simple as he sat there, engaged in seven 
plots in Cromwell’s time; and, as he proudly added, with some of 
the tallest men of England. The matchless look and air with which 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


387 

Sir Geoffrey made this vaunt set all a-laugbing, and increased the 
ridicule with which the whole trial began to be received; so that it 
was amidst shaking sides and watery eyes that a general verdict of 
Not Guilty was j^-onounced and the prisoners dismissed from the 
bar. 

But a warmer sentiment awakened among those who saw the fa- 
ther and son throw themselves into each other’s arras, and, after a 
hearty embrace, extend their hands to their poor little companion in 
peril, who, like a dog, when present at a similar scene, had at last 
succeeded, by stretching himself up to them and whimpering at the 
same time, to secure to himself a portion of their sympathy and 
giatulation. . 

Such was the singular termination of this trial Charles himself 
was desirous to have taken considerable credit with the Duke of 
Ormond for the evasion of the law, which had been thus effected by 
his private connivance; and was both surprised and mortified at the 
coldness with which his grace replied, that he was rejoiced at the 
poor gentlemen’s safety, but would rather have had the king redeem 
them like a prince, by his royal prerogative of mercy, than that his 
judge should convey them out of the power of the law, like a 
juggler with his cups and balls. 

CHAPTER XLll. 

On fair ground 

I could beat forty of them ! 

Coridlanus. 

It doubtless occurred to many that were present at the trial we 
have described, that it was managed in a singular manner, and that 
the quarrel, which had the appearance of having taken place be- 
tween the court and the crown counsel, might proceed from some 
private understanding betwixt them, the object of which was the 
miscarriage of the accusation. Yet though such underhand dealing 
was much suspected, the greater part of the audience, being well 
educated and intelligent, had already suspected the bubble of the 
Popish Plot, and were glad to see that accusations, founded on what 
had already cost so much blood, could be evaded in any way. But 
the crowd, who waited in the Court of Requests, and in the hall, and 
without doors, viewed in a very different light the combination, as 
they interpreted it, between the judge and the attorney-general, for 
the escape of the prisoners. 

Oates, whom less provocation than he had that day received often 
induced to behave like one frantic with passion, threw himself 
amongst the crowd, and repeated till he was hoarse, “ Theay are 
stoifling the Plaat! — theay are straangling the Plaat! ]My Laard 
Justice and Maaster Attarney are in league to secure the escape of 
the plaaters and Paapists!” 

“ It is the device of the Papist whore of Portsmouth,” said one. 

” Of old Rowley himself,” said another. 

“ If he could be muidered by himself, why hang those that would 
hinder it!” exclaimed a third. 

” He should be tried,” said a fourth, “for conspiring his own 
death, and hanged terrorem.” 


388 


PEVEEIL OP THE PEAK. 


In the meanwhile, Sir Geoffrey, his son, and their little companion,, 
left the hall, intending to go to Lady Peveril’s lodgings, which had 
been removed to Fleet Street. She had been relieved from consider- 
able inconvenience, as Sir Geoffrey gave Julian hastily to under- 
stand, by an angel, in the shape of a young friend, and she now ex- 
pected them doubtless with impatience. Humanity, and some in- 
distinct idea of having unintentionally hurt the feelings of the poor 
dv/arf, induced the honest cavalier to ask this unprotected being to 
go with them. “ He knew J^ady Peveril’s lodgings were but 
small,” he said, ” but it w^ould be strange if there was not some 
cupboard large enough to accommodate the little gentleman.” 

The dwarf registered this well-meanti remark in his mind, to be 
the subject of a proper explanation, along with the unhappy rem- 
iniscence of the trencher-hornpipe, whenever time should permit an 
argument of such nicety. 

And thus they sallied from the hall, attracting general observa- 
tion, both from the circumstances in which they had stood so lately, 
and from their resemblance, as a wag of the Innner Temple ex- 
pressed it, to the three degrees of comparison. Large, Lesser, I^east. 
But they had not passed far along the stfeet when Julian per- 
ceived that more malevolent passions than mere curiosity began to 
actuate the crowd which followed, and, as it were, dogged their 
motions. 

” There go the Papist cut-throats, tantivy for Romel” said one 
fellow. 

“ Tantivy to Whitehall, you mean!” said another. 

‘‘Ah! the bloodthirst}^ villains!” cried a woman: ‘‘Shame, one 
of them should be suffered to live after poor Sir Edmondsbury’s 
cruel murder.” 

‘‘ Out upon the meal 3 ’^-mouthed jury, that turned out the blood- 
hounds on an innocent town!” cried a fourth. 

In short, the tumult thickened, and the word began to pass among 
the more desperate, ‘‘ Lambe them, lads; lambe them!” — a cant 
phrase of the time, derived from the fate of Dr. Lambe, an astrologer 
and quack, who was knocked on the head of the rabble in Charles 
the First’s time. 

Julian began to be much alarmed at these symptoms of violence, 
and regretted that they had not gone down to the city by water. It 
was now too late to think of that mode of retreating, and he there- 
fore requested his father in a whisper to walk steadily forward 
toward Charing Cross, taking ho notice of the insults which might 
be cast upon them, while the steadiness of their pace and appearance 
might prevent the rabble Jrom resorting to actual violence. The 
execution of this prudent resolution was prevented after they'had 
passed the palace, by the hasty disposition of the elder Sir Geoffrey, 
and the no less choleric temper of Galfridus Minimus, who had a 
soul which spurned all odds, as well of numbers as of size. 

” Now a murrain take the knaves, with their hollowing and 
whooping,” said the larger knight; *• by this day, if 1 could but 
light on a weapon, 1 would cudgel reason and loj^alty into some of 
their carcasses!” 

” And I also,” said the dwarf, who was toiling to keep up with 


PEVERIL OP .THE PEAK, 


389 

the longer strides of his companions, and therefore spoke in a very 
phthisical tone — ‘‘1 also 'will cudgel the plebeian knaves beyond 
measure — he ! — hem ! ” 

Among the crowd who thronged around them, impeded, and did 
all but assault them, was a mischievous shoemaker’s apprentice, 
who, hearing this unlucky vaunt of the valorous dwarf, repaid it by 
flapping him on the head with a boot which he was carrjdng home 
to the owner, so as to knock the little gentleman’s hat over his eyes. 
The dwarf, thus rendered unable to discover the urchin that had 
given him the offense, flew with instinctive ambition against the big- 
gest fellow in the crowd, who received the onset with a kick on the 
stomach, which made the poor little champion reel back to his com- 
panions. They were now assaulted on all sides; but fortune, com- 
plying with the wish of Sir Geoffrey the larger, ordained that the 
scuffle should happen near the booth of a cutler, from amongst 
whose wares, as they stood exposed to the public. Sir Geoffrey Pev- 
eril snatched a broadsword, which he brandished with the formi- 
dable address of one who had for many a day been in the familiar 
practice of using such a weapon. Julian, while at the same time he 
called loudly for a peace-officer, and reminding the assailants that 
they were attacking inoffensive passengers, saw nothing better for it 
than to imitate his father’s example, and seized also one of the 
weapons thus opportunely offered. 

When they displayed these demonstrations of defense, the rush 
which the rabble at first made toward them was so great as to throw 
down the unfortunate dwarf, who would have been trampled to 
death in the scuffle, had not his stout old namesake cleared the ras- 
cal crowd from about him with a few flourishes of his weapon, and 
seizing on the fallen champion, put him out of danger (except from 
missiles) by suddenly placing him on the bulkhead, that, is to say, 
the flat wooden roof of the cutler’s projecting; booth. From the 
rusty ironware which was displayed there, the dwarf instantly 
snatched an old rapier and target, and, covering himself with the 
one, stood making passes at the other, at the faces and eyes of the 
people in the street; so much delighted with his post of vantage, 
that he called loudly to his friends ^^ho were skirmishing with the 
rioters on more equal terms as to position, to lose no time in putting 
themselves under his protection. But far from being in a situation 
to need his assistance, the father and son might easily have extricat- 
ed themselves from the rabble by their own exertions, could they 
have thought of leaving the manikin in the forlorn situation, in 
which, to every eye but his own, he slood like a diminutive puppet, 
tricked out with sword and target as a fencing-master’s sign. » 

Stones and sticks began nowlo fly very thick, and the crowd, not- ‘ 
withstanding the exertions of the Peverils to disperse them with as 
little harm as possible, seemed determined on mischief, when some 
gentlemen who had been at the trial, understanding that the pris- 
oners who had been just acquitted were in danger of being murdered 
by the populace, drew their swords, and made forward to effect their 
rescue, which was completed by a small party of the King’s Life- 
Guards, who had been dispatched from their ordinary post of alarm, 
upon intelligence of which was passing. When this unexpected re- 
enforcement arrived, the old jolly knight at once recognized, amidst 


390 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK, 


the cries of those who then entered upon action, some of the sounds 
which had animated his more active years. 

“ Where be these cuckoldly Roundheads,” cried some. ” Down 
with the sneaking knaves!” cried others. “The King and his 
friends, and the devil a one else!” exclaimed a third set, with more 
oaths and d— n me’s, than, in the present more correct age, it is nec- 
essary to commit to paper. 

The old soldier, pricking up his ears like an ancient hunter at the 
cry of the hounds, would gladly have scoured the Strand, with the 
charitable purpose, now he sawhimselt so well supported, of knock- 
ing the London knaves, who had insulted him, into twiggen bottles; 
but he was withheld b}^ the prudence of Julian, who, though him- 
self extremely irritated by the unprovoked ill usage which they had 
received, saw himself in a situation in which it was necessary to 
exercise more caution than vengeance. He prayed and pressed his 
father to seek some temporary place of retreat from the fury of the 
populace, while that prudent measure was yet in their power. The 
subaltern officer who commanded the party of the life-guards, ex-' 
horted the old Cavalier eagerly to the same sage counsel, using, as a 
spice of compulsion, the name of the king ; while Julian strongly 
urged that of his mother. The old knight looked at his blade, crim- 
soned with the cross-cuts and slashes which he had given to the most 
forward of the assailants, with the eye of one not half sufficed. 

“ 1 would 1 had pinked one of the knaves at least — but 1 know 
not how it was, when 1 looked on their broad round English faces, 
1 shunned to Use my point, and only sliced the rogues a little.” 

“ But the king’s pleasure,” said the officer, “ is, that no tumult 
be prosecuted.” 

‘‘ My mother,” said Julian, “ will die with fri'ght, if the rumor of 
this scuffle reaches her ere we see her.” 

“Ay, ay,” said the knight, “ the king’s majesty, and my good 
dame— well, their pleasure be done, that’s all 1 can say— kings and 
ladies must be obeyed. But which way to retreat, since retreat we 
needs must?” 

Julian would have been at some loss to advise what course to 
take, for everybody in the vicinity had shut up theii shops, and 
chained their doors, upon observing the confusion become so for- 
midable. The poor cutler, however, with whose goods they made 
so free, offered them an asylum on the part of his landlord, wJiose 
house served as a rest for his shop, and only intimated gently, he 
lioped the gentlemen would consider him for the use of his weapons. 

Julian was hastily resolving whether they ought, in prudence, to 
accept this man’s invitation, aware, by experience, how many 
trepans, as they were then termed, were used betwixt two contend- 
ing factions, each too inveterate to be very scrupulous of the 
character of fair play to an enemy, when the dwarf, exerting 
his cracked voice to the uttermost, and shrieking like an ex- 
hausted herald, from the exalted station which he still occupied on 
the bulk -head, exhorted them to accept the offer of the worthy man 
of the mansion. “He himself,” he said, as he reposed himself 
after the glorious conquest in which he had some share, “ had been 
favored with a beatific vision, too splendid to be described to com- 
mon and mere mortal ears, but which had commanded him, in a 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAH, 


391 

voice to which his heart had bounded as to a trumpet sound, to take 
refuge with the worthy person of the house, and cause his friends 
to do so.” 

” Vision!” said the Knight of the Peak—” sound of a trumpet!— 
the little man is stark mad.” 

But the cutlei, in great haste, intimated to them that their little 
friend had received an intimation from a gentlewoman of his ac- 
quaintance, who spoke to him from the window, while he stood on 
the bulk-head, that they would find a safe retreat in his landlord’s; 
and desiring them to attend to two or three deep though distant 
huzzas, made them aware that the rabble were up still, and would 
soon be upon them with renewed violence, and increased numbers. 

The father and son, therefore, hastily thanked the officer and his 
party, as well as the other gentlemen who had volunteered in their 
assistance, lifted little Sir Geoftrey Hudson from the conspicuous 
post which he had so creditably occupied during the skirmish, and 
followed the footsteps of the tenant of the booth, who conducted 
them down a blind alley, and through one or trvo courts, in case, as 
he said, any one might have watched where they burrowed, and so 
into a back-door. This entrance admitted them to a staircase care- 
fully hung with straw mats to exclude damp, from the upper step 
of which they entered upon a tolerably large withdraw! ng-room, 
hung with coarse green serge edged with gilded leather, which the 
poorer or more economical cilizens at that time used instead of 
tapestry or wainscoting. 

Here the poor cutler received from Julian such a gratuity for the 
loan of the swords, that he generously abandoned the property to 
the gentlemen who had used them so’ well; ” the rather,” he said, 
” that he saw, by the way they handled their weapons, that they 
were men of mettle, and tall fellows.” 

Here the dwarf smiled on him courteously, and bowed, thrusting, 
at the same time, his hand into his pocket, which, howerer, he 
withdrew carelessly, probably because he found he had not the 
means of making the small donation which he had meditated. 

The cutler proceeded to say, as he bowed and w'as about to with- 
draw, that he saw there would be merry days j'et in Old England, 
and that Bilboa blades wmuld fetch as good a price as ever. “ I re- 
member,” he said, ” gentlemen, though 1 was then but a ’prentice, 
the demand for weapons in the years forty-one and forty-two; sword 
blades were more in request than toothpicks, and Old Ironsides, my 
master, took more for rascally Provant rapiers, than 1 dare ask 
now-a-days lor a Toledo. But, to be sure, a man’s life then rested 
on the blade he carried; the Cavaliers and Roundheads f ought every 
day at the gates of Whitehall, as it is like, gentlemen, by your good 
example, they may do again, when 1 shall be enabled to leave my 
pitiful booth, and open a shop of better quality. 1 hope you will 
recommend me, gentlemen, to your friends. 1 am always provided 
with ware whicl^a gentleman may risk his life on.” 

“Thank you, good friend,” said Julian, ” 1 prithee begone. 1 
trust we shall need tliy ware no more for some time at least.” 

The cutler retired, while the dwarf hollowed after him down 
stairs, that he would call on him soon, and equip himself with a 
longer blade, and cne more proper for action; although, he said, the 


PEYEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


392 

little weapon he had did well enough for a w^aiking-sword, or in a 
skirmish with such canaille as they had been engaged with. 

The cutler returned at this summons, ^nd agreed to pleasure the 
little man wdth a weapon more suitable to his magnanimity; then, 
as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him, he said, “ But, gen- 
tlemen, it will be ^vild work to wain with your naked sw^ords 
through the Strand and it can scarce fail to raise the rabble apin. 
It you please, while you repose yourselves here, 1 can fit the blades 
with sheaths. ” 

The proposal seemed so reasonable, that Julian and his father 
gave up their weapons to the friendly cutler, an example which the 
dwarf follow’ ed, after a moment’s hesitation, not caring, as he mag- 
nificently expressed it, to part so soon with the trusty friend which 
fortune had but the moment before restored to his hand. The man 
retired with the weapons under his arm; and, in shutting the door 
behind him, they heard him turn the key. 

“ Did you hear that?” said Sir Geoffr'ey to his son~“ and we are 
disarmed.” 

Julian, without reply, examined the door, which w;asfast secured; 
and then looked at the casements, which were at a story’s height 
from the ground, and grated besides with iron. ” I cannot think,” 
he said, after a moment’s pause, “ that ' the fellow means to trepan 
ns; and, in any event, 1 trust w’e should have no difficulty in forc- 
ing the door, of otherwise making an escape. But, before resorting 
to such violent measures, 1 think it is better to give the rabble leisure 
to disperse, by waiting this man’s return with our weapons within a 
reasonable time, when, if he does not appear, 1 trust we shall find 
little difficulty in extricating ourselves.” As he spoke thus, the 
hangings were pulled aside, and from a small door which was con- 
cealed behind them. Major Bridgenorth entered tlie room. 


CHAPTER XLlll. 

He came amongst them like a new I'aised spirit, 

To speak of dreadful judgments that impend, 

And of the wrath to come. 

The Refoi'me^’. 

The astonishment of Julian at the unexpected apparition of 
Bridgenorth, was instantly succeeded by apprehension of his father’s 
violence, which he had ever reason to believe would break forth 
against one, whom he himself could not but reverence on account of 
his own merits, as well as because he was the father of 'Alice. The 
appearance of Bridgenorth was not, however, such as to awaken 
resentment. His countenance was calm, his step slow and com- 
posed, his eye not without the indication of some deep-seated anx- 
iety, but without any expression either of anger or of triumph. 
“ You are welcome,”. he said, ” Sir Geoftrey Peveril, to the shelter 
and hospitality of this house; as welcome as you would have been 
in other days, when we called each other neighbors and friends. ” 

“ Odzooks,” said the old Cavalier, “ and had 1 known it was thy 
house, man, 1 would sooner had my heart’s blood run down the 
kennel, than my foot should have crossed your threshold — in the 
Way of seeking safety, that is.” 


PEYEKIL OF THE PEAK. 393 

“ I forgive your inveteracy,” said Major Bridgenortli, “ on ac- 
count of your pre j udices. ’ ’ 

” Keep your forgiveness,” answered the Cavalier, ” until you are 
pardoned 3 ^ouiself. By Saint George, 1 have sworn, if ever I got 
heels out of yon rascally prison, whither 1 was sent much 
through your means. Master Bridgenorth— that you should pay the 
reckoning for my bad lodging. 1 will strike no man in his own 
house; but if you will cause the fellow to bring back my weapon, 
and take a turn in that blind court there below, along with me, 5 ^ou 
shall soon see what chance a traitor hath with a true man, and a 
kennel- blooded Puritan with Peveril of the Peak.” 

Bridgenorth smiled wnth much composure. ” When 1 was 
younger and more waim-blooded,” he replied, ”1 refused your 
challenge, Sir Geoffrey; it is not likely 1 should now accept it, 
when each is within a stride of the grave. 1 have not spared, and 
^ will not spare, my blood, when my country wants it.” 

‘‘ That is when there is any chance of treason against the king,” 
said Sir Geoffre 3 ^ 

‘‘ Nay, my father,” said Julian, “ let us hear Master Biidge- 
norlh! We have been sheltered in his house; and although we now 
see him in London, we should remember that he did liot appear 
against us this day, when perhaps his evidence might have given a 
fatal turn to our situation.” 

“You are right, young man,” said Bridgenorth; “ and it should 
be some pledge of my sincere good will, that 1 was this day absent 
from Westminster, when a few words from my mouth had ended 
the long line of Peveril of the Peak: It needed but ten minutes to 
walk to W estminster Hall, to have insured your condemnation. But 
could I have done this, knowing, as I now know, that to thee, J ulian 
Peveril, 1 owe the extrication of my daughter — of my deaiest Alice 
— the memory of her departed mother — from the snares which hell 
and profligacy had opened around her?” 

“ She is, I trust, safe,” said Peveril, eagerly, and almost forget- 
ting his father’s presence; “ she is, 1 trust, safe, and in your ward- 
ship?” 

“ Not in mine,” said the dejected father; “ but in that of one in 
whose protection, next to that of Heaven, 1 can most fully confide.” 

“Are you sure — are you very sure of that?” repeated Julian, 
eagerly. “ 1 found her under the charge of one to whom she had 
been trusted, and who j^et — ” 

“ And who yet was the basest of women,” answered Bridgenorth; 
“ but he who selected her for the charge was^ deceived in her char- 
acter.” 

“ Say rather you were deceived in his; remember that when we 
parted at Moultrassie, 1 warned you of that Ganlesse— that— ” 

“ 1 know your meaning,” said Bridgenorth; “ nor did you err in 
describing him as a w'orldly-wise man. But he has atoned for his 
error by recovering Alice from the dangeis into which she was 
plunged when separated from you ; and besides, 1 have not thought 
meet again to intrust him with the charge that is dearest to me.” 

“ I thank God your eyes are thus far opened!” said Julian. 

“ This day will open them wide, or close them for ever,” an- 
swered Bridgenorth. 


394 


PEYEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


During tliis dialogue, which the speakers hurried through without 
attending to the others who were present, Sir Geottrey listened with 
surprise aud eagerness, endeavoring to catch something which 
should render their conversation intelligible; but as he totally failed 
in gaining any such key to their meaning, he broke in with — 
“ ’Sblood and thunder, Julian, what unprofitable gossip is this? 
What hast thou to do with this fellow, more than to bastinado him, 
if you should think it worth while to beat so old a rogue?” 

‘‘ My dearest father,” said Julian, “ you know not this gentleman 
— 1 am certain you do him injustice. ’ My own obligations to him 
are many; and 1 am sure when you come to know them — ” 

” I hope 1 shall die ere that moment come,” said Sir Geoftrey; 
and continued with increasing violence, “ 1 hope in the mercy of 
Heaven, that 1 shall be in the grave of my ancestors, ere 1 learn that 
my son — my only son — the last hope of my ancient house — the last 
remnant of the name of Peveril — hath consented to receive obliga- 
tions from the man on earth 1 am most bound to hate, were 1 not 
still more bound to contemn him! Degenerate dog-whelp!” he re- 
peated with great vehemence, “ you color, without replying! Speak, 
and disown such disgrace; or, by the God of my fathers—” 

The dwarf suddenly stepped forward, and called out, “ Forbear!” 
with a voice at once so discordant and commanding, that it sounded 
supernatural. “Man of sin and pride,” he said, “forbear; and 
call not the name of a holy God, to witness thine unhallowed resent- 
ments.” 

The rebuke so boldly and decidedly given, and the moral enthu- 
siasm with which he spoke, gave the despised dwarf an ascendency 
for the moment over the fierj^ spirit of his gigantic namesake. Sir 
Geoffrey Peveril eyed him tor an instant askance and sliyly, as he 
might have done a supernatural apparition, and then muttered, 
“ What knowest thou of my cause of wrath?” 

“ Nothing,” said the dwarf; — “ nothing but this— that no cause 
can warrant the oath thou wert about to swear. Ungrateful man! 
thou wert to-day rescued from the devouring wrath of the wicked, 
by a marvelous conjunction of circumstances— Is this a day, think- 
est thou, on which to indulge thine own hasty resentments?” 

“ 1 stand rebuked,” said Sir Geoffrey, “ and by a singular moni- 
tor— the grasshopper, as the prayer-book saith, hath become a bur- 
den to me. J ulian, 1 will speak to thee of these matters hereafter; 
—and for you. Master Bridgenorth, 1 desire to have no further com- 
munication with you, either in peace or in anger. Our time passes 
fast, and 1 would fain return to my family. Cause our weapons to 
be restored; unbar the doors, and let us part without further alterca- 
tion, which can but disturb and aggravate our spirits.” 

“Sir Geoffrey Peveril,” said Bridgenorth, “ I have no desire to 
vex your spirit or my own; but, for thus soon dismissing you, that 
may hardly be, it being a course inconsistent with the work which 1 
have on hand.” 

“ How, sir! Do you mean that we should abide here, whether 
with or against our inclinations?” said the dwarf. “Were it not 
that l am laid under charge to remain here, by one who hath the 
best right to command this poor microcosm, 1 would show thee that 
bolts and bars are unavailing resliaints on such as 1 am.” 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


395 

“ Truly/' said Sir Geoffrey, “1 think, upon an emergency, the 
little man niight make his escape through the keyhole.” 

Bridgenorth's face was moved into something like a smile at the 
swaggering speech of the pigmy hero, and the contemptuous coni- 
mentar}’’ of Sir Geoffrey Peveril ; but such an expression never dwelt 
on his features for two seconds together, and he replied in these 
words: — “ Gentlemen, each and all of you must be fain to content 
yourselves. Believe me, no hurt is intended toward you; on the 
contrary, your remaining here will be a means of securing your 
safety, w-hich would be otherwise deeply endangered. It wiil be 
your own fault if a hair of your head is hurt. But the stronger 
force is on my side; and, whatever harm you may meet with should 
you attempt to break forth by violence, the blame must rest with 
yourselves. If you will not believe me, 1 will permit Master Julian 
Peveril to accompany me, where he shall see that 1 am provided 
fully with the means of repressing violence.” 

” Treason!— treason!” exclaimed the old knight — ‘‘Treason 
against God and King Charles! Oh, for one half hour of the broad- 
sword which 1 pai-ted with like an ass!” 

“ Hold, my father,! conjure you!” said Julian. ”1 will go 
with Master Bridgenorth, since he requests it. 1 will satisfy my- 
self wliether there be danger, and of what nature. It is possible I 
may prevail on him to desist from some desperate measure, if such 
be indeed in agitation. Should it be necessary, fear not that your 
son will behave as he ought to do.” 

“ Do your pleasure, Julian,” said his father; ” 1 will confide in 
thee. But if you betray my confidence, a father’s curse shall cleave 
to you. ” 

Bridgenorth now motioned to Peveril to follow him, and they 
passed through the small door by which he had entered. 

The passage led lo a vestibule or anteroom, in which several other 
doors and passages seemed to center. Through one of these Julian 
was conducted by Bridgenorth, walking with silence and precau- 
tion, in obedience to a signal made by his guide to that effect. As 
they advanced, he heard sounds, like those of the human voice, en- 
gaged in urgent and emphatic declamation. With slow and light 
steps Bridgenorth conducted him through a door which terminated 
this passage; and as he entered a little gallery, having a curtain in 
front, the sound of (he preacher’s voice— -for such it now seemed — 
became distinct and audible. 

Julian now doubted not that he was in one of those conventicles, 
which, though contrary to the existing laws, still continued to be 
regularly held in different parts of London and the suburbs. Many 
of these, as frequented by persons of moderate political principles, 
though dissenters from the church for conscience’ sake, were con- 
nived at by the prudence or timidity of the government. But some 
of them, in which assembled the fiercer and more exalted sects of 
Independents, Anabaptists, Fifth-Monarchy men, and other secta- 
ries, whose stern enthusiasm had contributed so greatly to effect 
the overthrow of the late king’s throne, were sought after, sup- 
pre.ssed, and dispersed, whenever they could be discovered. 

Julian was soon satisfied that the meeting into which he was thus 
secretly introduced, was one of the latter class; and, to judge by the 


396 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


violence of the preacher, of the most desperate character. He was 
still more effectually convinced of this, when, at a sign from Bridge- 
north, he cautiously unclosed a part of the curtain which hung be- 
fore (he gallery, and thus, unseen himself, looked down on the audi- 
ence, and obtained a view of the preacher. 

About two hundred persons were assembled beneath, in an area 
filled up with benches, as if for the exercise of worship; and they 
were all of the male sex, and well armed with pikes and muskets, 
as well as swords and pistols. Most of them had the appearance of 
veteran soldiers, now past the middle of life, yet retaining such an 
appearance of strength as might well supply the loss of youthful 
agility. They stood, or sat, in various attitudes of stern attention; 
and, resting on their spears and muskets, kept their eyes firmly fixed 
on the preacher, who ended the violence of his declamation by dis- 
playing from the pulpit a banner, on which was represented a lion, 
with the motto, “ Yicit Leo ex tribu Judce.'' 

The torrent of mystical yet animating eloquence of the preacher 
— an old gray-haired man, whom zeal seemed to supply with the 
powers of voice and action, of which years had deprived him— was 
suited to the taste of his audience, but could not be transferred to 
these pages without scandal and impropriety. He menaced the 
rulers of England with all the judgments denounced on those of 
Moab and Assyria — he called upon the saints to be strong, to be up 
and doing; and promised those miracles which, in the campaigns 
of Joshua, and his successors, the valiant Judges of Israel, supplied 
all odds against the Amorites, Midianites, and Philistines. He 
sounded timmpets, opened vials, broke seals, and denounced ap- 
proaching judgments under all the mystical signs of the Apocalypse. 
The end of the world was announced, accompanied with all its pre- 
liminary terrors. 

Julian, with deep anxiety, soon heard enough to make him aware 
that the meeting was likely to tenninate in open insuriection, like 
that of the Fifth-Monarchy men, under Venner, at an earlier period 
of Charles’s reign; and he was not a little concerned at the proba- 
bility of Bridgenorth being implicated in so criminal and desperate 
an undertaking. If he had retained any doubts of the issue of the 
meeting, they must have been removed when the preacher called on 
his hearers to renounce all expectation which had hitherto been en- 
tertained of safety to the nation, from the execution of the ordinary 
laws of the land. This he said, was at best but a carnal seeking 
after earthly aid — a going down to Egypt for help, which the jeal- 
ousy of their Divine Leader ^vould resent as a fleeing to another 
rock, and a different banner, from that which was this day dis- 
played over them. And here he solemnly swung tjie bannered lion 
over their heads, as the only sign under which they ought to seek 
for life and safety. He then proceeded to insist that recourse to 
ordinary justice was vain as well as sinful. 

“ The event of that day at Westminster,” he said, ” might teach 
them that the man at Whitehall was even as the man his father;” 
and closed a long tirade against the vices of the court, with assur- 
ance “ that Tophet • was ordained of old — for the King it was made 
hot.” 

As the preacher entered On a description of the approaching 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 397 

theocracy, which he dared to prophesy, Bridgenorth, who appeared 
for a time to have forgotten the presence of Julian, whilst with stern 
and fixed attention he drank in the words of the preacher, seemed 
suddenly to collect himself, and, taking Julian by the hand, led 
him out of the gallery, of which he carefully closed the door, into 
an apartment at no great distance. 

When they arrived there, he anticipated the expostulations of 
Julian, by asking him, in a tone of severe triumph, whether these 
men he had seen were likely to do their work negligently, or whether 
it would not be perilous to attempt to force their way from a house, 
when all the avenues were guarded by such as he had now seen— men 
of war from their childhood upward. 

“ In the name of Heaven,” said Julian, without replying to 
Bridgenorih's question, “ for what desperate purpose have you as- 
sembled so many desperate men? I am well aw^are that your senti- 
ments of religion are peculiar; but beware how you deceive yourself. 
Ho views of religion can sanction rebellion and murder; and such 
are the natural and necessary consequences of the doctrine we have 
just heard poured into the ears of fanatical and violent enthusiasts.” 

“ My son,” said Bridgenorth, calmljr, “ in the days of my non- 
age, 1 thought as you do. I deemed it sufficient to pay my tithes 
of cummin and anise-seed —my poor petty moral observances of the 
old law; andl thought 1 was heaping up precious things, when they 
were in value no more than the husks of the swine-trough. Praised 
he Heaven, the scales are fallen from mine eyes; and after forty 
years’ wandering in the desert of Sinai, 1 am at length arrived in the 
Land of Promise. My corrupt human nature has left me— 1 have 
cast my slough, and can now with some conscience put my hand to 
the plow, certain that there is no weakness left in me wherethrough 
1 may look back. The furrows,” he added, bending his brows, 
while a gloomy fire filled his large eyes, ” must be drawn long and 
deep, and watered by the blood of the mighty.” 

There was a change in Bridgenorth’s tone and manner, when he 
used these singular expressions, which convinced Julian that his 
mind, which had wavered for so many years between his natural good 
sense and the insane enthusiasm of the time, had finally given way 
to the latter; and, sensible of the danger in which the unhappy man 
himself, the innocent and beautiful Alice, and his own father, were 
likely to be placed — to say nothing of the general risk of the com- 
munity by a sudden insurrection, he at the same time felt that 
there was no chance of reasoning effectually with one who would 
oppose spiritual conviction to all arguments which reason could urge 
against his wild schemes. To touch his feelings seemed a moie 
probable resource; and Julian therefore conjured Bridgenorth to 
think how much his daughter’s honor and safety were concerned in 
his abstaining from the dangerous course which he meditated. “If 
you fall,” he said, “ must she not pass under the power and guard- 
ianship of her uncle, whom you allow to have shown himself capa- 
ble of the grossest mistake in the choice of her female protectress; 
and whom 1 believe, upon good grounds, to have made that infa 
mous choice with his eyes open?” 

“ Young man,” answered Bridgenorth, “ you make me feel like 
the poor bird, around whose wing some wanton boy has fixed a line. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


398 

to pull the struggling wretcli to earth at his pleasure. Know, since 
thou wilt play this cruel part, and drag me down from higher con- 
templations, that she with whom Alice is placed, and who hath in 
future full power to guide her motions, and decide her fate, despite 
ot Christian and every one else, is — 1 will not tell thee wlm she is. 
Enough— no one— thou least of all— needs to fear tor her safety.” 

” At this moment a side-door opened, and Christian himself came 
into the apartment. He started and colored when he saw Julian 
Peveril; then turning to Bndgenorth with an assumed air of in- 
diflerence, asked, ” Is Saul among the prophets? Is a Peveril among 
the saints?” 

” No, brother,” replied Bridgenorth, ” his time is not come more 
than thine own — thou art too deep in the ambitious intrigues of 
manhood, and he in the giddy passions. of youth, to hear the still 
calm voice. Yon will both hear it, as 1 trust and pray.” 

“ Master Ganlesse, or Christian, or by whatever name you are 
called,” said Julian, ” by whatever reasons you guide yourself in 
this most perilous matter, you at least are not influenced by an idea 
of an immediate divine command for commencing hostilities against 
the state. Leaving, therefore, tor the present, whatever subjects of 
discussion may be between us, I implore you, as a man of shrewd- 
ness and sense, to join with me in dissuading Master Bridgenorth 
from the fatal enterprise w^hich he now meditates.” 

“Young gentleman,” said Christian, with great composure,, 
“ when we met in the west, 1 was willing to have made a friend of 
you, but you rejected the overture. You might, however, even then 
have seen enough of me to be assured, that 1 am not likely to rush 
too rashly on any desperate undertaking. As to this which lies 
before us, try brother Bridgenorth brings to it the simplicity, though 
not the harmlessness of the dove, and 1 the subtil ty of the serpent. 
He hath the leading of saints who are moved by the spirit; and 1 
can add to their efforts a powerful body, who have for their insti- 
gators, the world, the devil, and the flesh.” 

“ And can you,” said Julian, looking at Bridgenorth, “ accede 
to such an unworthy union?” 

“1 unite not with them,” said Bridgenorth; “but 1 may not, 
without guilt, reject the aid which Providence sends to assist his 
servants. M^e are ourselves few, though determined. Those whose 
swords come to help the cutting down of the harvest, must be wel- 
come. AY hen their work is wrought, they will be converted or 
scattered. Have you been at York Place, brother, with that un- 
stable epicure? AYe must have his last resolution, and that within 
an hour. ’ ’ 

Christian looked at Julian, as if his presence prevented him from 
returning an answer; upon which Bridgenorth arose, and taking the 
young man by the arm, led him out of the apartment, into that in 
whicli they had left his father; assuring him by the w^ay, that deter- 
mined and vigilant guards were placed in every different quarter by 
which escape could be efitected, and that he would do well to per- 
suade his father to remain a quiet prisoner for a few hours. 

Julian returned him no answer, and Bridgenorth presently retired, 
leaving him alone with his father and Hudson. To their questions 
he could only briefly reply, that he feared they were trepanned. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


399 

since they were in the house with at least two hundred fanatics, 
completely armed, and apparently prepared for some desperate 
enterprise. Their own want of arms precluded the possibility of 
open violence; and however unpleasant, it migiit be to remain in 
such a condition, it seemed difficult, from the strength of the fast- 
enings at doors and windows, to attempt any secret escape without 
instantaneous detection. 

The valiant dwarf alone nursed hopes, with which he in vain en- 
deavored to inspire his companions in affliction. “ The fair one, 
whose eyes,” he said, “ were like the twin stars of Leda ” — for the 
little man was a great admirer of lofty language— “ had not invited 
him, the most devoted, and, it might be, not the least favored of her 
servants, into this place as a harbor, in order that he might therein 
suffer shipwreck;” and he generously assured his friends, that in his 
safety they also should be safe. 

Sir Geoffrey, little cheered by this intimation, expressed his 
despair at not being able to get the length of Whitehall, where he 
trusted to find as many jolly Cavaliers as would help him to stifle 
the whole nest of wasps in their hive; while Julian was of opinion 
that the best service he could now render Bridgeuorth would be 
timeously to disclose his plot, and, if possible, to send him at the 
same time warning to save his person. 

But we must leave them to meditate over their plans at leisure; 
no one of which, as they all depended on their previous escape from 
confinement, seemed in any great chance of being executed. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

And some for safety took the dreadful leap ; 

Some for the voice of Heaven seem’d calling on them ; 

Some for advancement, or for lucre’s sake— 

I leap’d in frolic. 

The Dream. 

After private conversation with Bridgenorth, Christian hastened 
to the Duke of Buckingham's hotel> taking at the same time such a 
route as to avoid meeting with any acquaintance. He was ushered 
into the apartment of the duke, whom he found cracking and eating 
filberts, with a flask of excellent white wine at his elbow. “ Chris- 
tian,” said his grace, “come help me to laugh— 1 have bit Sir 
Charles Sedley— flung him tor a thousand, by the gods!” 

“ I am glad at your luck, my lord duke,” replied Christian; 
“ but I am come here on serious business.” 

“ Serious? — why, 1 shall hardly be serious in my life again— ha, 
ha, ha!— and for luck, it was no such thing— singer wit, and excel- 
lent contrivance; and but that I don’t care to affront Fortune, like 
the old Greek ffeneral, 1 might tell her to her face— In this thou 
hadst no share. You have heard, Ned Christian, that Mother 
Cress well is dead?” 

“ Yes, 1 did hear that the devil hath got his due>” answered 
Christian. 

“ W^ell,” said the duke, “you are ungrateful; for 1 know you 
have been obliged to her, as well as others. Before George, a most 
benevolent and helpful old lady; and that she might not sleep in an 


400 


PEYEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


unblessed grave, 1 betted — do you mark me — with Sedley, that I 
would write her iuneral sermon; that it should be every word in 
praise of her life and conversation, that it should be all true, and 
yet that the diocesan should be unable to lay his thumb on Quod- 
ling, my little chaplain, who should preach it.” 

“ I perfectly see the difficulty, my lord,” said Christian, who well 
knew that if he wished to secure attention from this volatile noble- 
man, he must first suffer, nay, encourage him, to exhaust the topic^ 
whatever it might be, that had got temporary possession of his 
pineal gland. 

“ Why,” said the duke, ” 1 had caused my little Quodling to go 
through his oration thus — ‘ That whatever evil reports Had passed 
current during the lifetime of the worthy matron whom they had 
restored to dust that day, malice itself could not deny that she was 
born well, married well, lived well, and died well; since she was 
born in ShadweJl, married to Cresswell, lived in Camberwell, and 
died in Bridewell.’ Here ended the oration, and with it Sedley’s 
ambitious hopes of overreaching Buckingham — ah, ha, ha! And 
now. Master Christian, what are your commands for me to-day?” 

“ First, to thank your grace for being so attentive as to send so 
formidable a person as Colonel Blood, to wait upon your poor 
friend and servant. Faith, he took such an interest in my leaving 
town, that he wanted to compel me to do it at point of fox, so 1 was 
obliged to spill a little of his malapert blood. Your grace’s swords- 
men have had ill luck of late; and it is hard, since you always 
choose the best hands, and such scrupleless knaves too.” 

" Come now, Christian,” said the duke, ” do not thus exult over 
me; a great man, if 1 may so call myself, is never greater than amid 
miscarriage. 1 only played this little trick on you, Christian, to 
impress on you a wholesale idea of the interest 1 take in your mo- 
tions. The scoundrel’s having dared to draw upon you is a thing 
not to be forgiven. What! injure my old friend Christian?” 

“ And why not,” said Christian, coolly, “ if your old friend was 
so stubborn as not to go out of town like a good boy, wffien your 
grace required him to do so, for the civil purpose of entertaining 
his niece in his absence?” 

“ How — wdiatl— how do you mean by my entertaining your 
neice. Master Christian?” said the duke.* “ She w^as a personage 
far beyond my poor attentions, being destined, if 1 recollect aright, 
to something like royal favor.” 

“ It was her fate, however, to be the guest of your grace’s con- 
vent for a brace of days, or so. Marry, my lord, the father con- 
fessor was not at home,, and— for convents have been scaled of late 
— returned not till the bird was flown.” 

” Christian, thou art an oldreynard. 1 see there is no doubling 
with thee. It was thou, then, stole away my pretty prize, but left 
me something so much prettier in my rnind, that, had it not made 
itself wdngs to fly away with, 1 would have placed it in a cage of 
gold. Never be downcast, man; 1 forgive thee. 1 forgive thee.” 

” Your grace is of a most merciful disposition, especially consid- 
ering it is 1 wiio have had the wrong; and sages have said, that he 
who doth the injury, is less apt to forgive than he who only sus- 
tains it.” 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


401 

“ True, true, Christian,” said Ihe duke, “which, as you say, is 
something quite new, and places my clemency in a striking point of 
view. Well, then, thou forgiven man, when shall 1 see my IMauri- 
tanian princess again?” 

“ Whenever 1 am certain that a quibble, and a carwhichit, for a 
jday or a sermon, will not banish her from your grace’s memory.” 

“ l^ot all the wit of South, or of Etherege,” said Buckingham, 
hastily, “ to say nothing of my own, shall in future make me oblivi- 
ous of what 1 owe the Morisco princess. ’ ’ 

“ Yet, to leave the fair lady out of thought for a little while— a 
very little while,” said Christian, “ since 1 swear that in due time 
your grace shall see her, and know in her the most extraordinary 
woman that the age has produced— to leave her, 1 say, out of sight 
for a little while, has your grace had late notice of your duchess’s 
health?” 

“Health,” said the duke. “ Umph — no — nothing particular. 
She has been ill — but—” 

“ She is no longer so,” subjoined Christian; “ she died in York- 
shire forty-eight hours since.” 

“ Thou must deal with the devil,” said the duke. 

“ It would ill become one of my name to do so,” replied Chris- 
tian. “ But in the brief interval, since your grace hath known of 
an event which hath not yet reached the public ear, you have, 1 
believe, made proposals to the king for the hand of Lady Anne, 
second daughter of the Duke of York, and your grace’s proposals 
have been rejected.” 

“ Fiends and firebrands, villain!” said the duke, starting up and 
seizing Christian hy the collar; “ who hath told thee that?” 

“ Take youi hand from my cloak, my lord duke, and 1 may 
answer 5 mu,” said Christian. “ 1 have a scurvy touch of old puri- 
tanical humor about me. 1 abide not the imposition of hands — take 
off your grasp from my cloak, or 1 will find means to make you un- 
loose it.” 

The duke, who had kept his right hand on his dagger-hilt while 
he held Christian’s collar with his left, unloosed it as he spoke, but 
slowly, and as one who rather suspends than abandons the execution 
of some hasty impulse; while Christian, adjusting his cloak with 
perfect composure, said, “ Soh — my cloak being at liberty, we speak 
on equal terms. 1 come not to insult your grace, but to offer you 
vengeance for the insult you have received.” 

“ Vengeance!” said the duke — “It is the dearest proffer man 
can present to me in ray present mood. 1 huager for venge- 
ance-thirst for vengeance — could die to insure vengeance! — 
’Sdeath!” he continued, walking up and down the large apartment 
with the most unrestrained and violent agitation; “1 have chased 
this repulse out of my brain with ten thousand trifles, because 1 
thought no one knew it. But it is knowm, and to thee, the very 
common-sewer of court secrets— the honor of Villiers is in thy keep- 
ing, Ned Christian! Speak, thou man of wiles and intrigue— on 
wdiom dost thou promise the vengeance? Speak! and if thy answers 
meet my desires, 1 will make a bargain with thee as willingly as 
with thy master, Satan himself.” ’ 

“ 1 will not be,” said Christian, “ so unreasonable in my terms as 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


402 

stories tell of the old apostate; 1 will offer your grace, as he might 
do, temporal-prosperity and revenge, which is his frequent recruit- 
ing money, hut 1 leave it to yourself to provide, as you may be 
pleased, for your future salvation.” 

The duke, gazing upon him fixedly and sadly, replied, “ 1 would 
to God, Christian, that I could read what purpose ot damnable 
villainy thou hast to propose to me in thy countenance without the 
necessity of thy using words!” 

” Your grace can but try a guess,” said Christian, calmly smiling. 

‘‘ No,” replied the duke, after gazing at him a^ain for the space 
of a minute; ” thou art so deeply dyed a hypocrite that thy mean 
features and clear gray eye are as likely to conceal treason as any 
petty scheme of theft or larceny more corresponding to your degree. ” 

” Treason, my lord!” echoed Christian; “ you may have guessed 
more clearly than you are aware of. I honor your grace’s penetra- 
tion.” 

“ Treason!” echoed the duke. “ Who dare name such a crime 
tome?” 

‘‘ If a name startles your grace, you may call it vengeance— venge- 
ance on the cabal of councilors, w^ho have ever countermined you, 
in spite of your wit and j'-our interest with the king. Yengeance on 
Arlington, Ormond — on Charles himself.” 

‘‘No, by Heaven,” said the duke, resuming his disordered walk 
through the apartment. ‘‘ Vengeance on these rats of the Privy 
Council— come at it as you will. But the king!— never — never. I 
have provoked him a hundred times, where he has stirred me once. 
1 have crossed his path in stale intrigue — rivaled him in love — had 
the advantage in both — and, d— n it, he has forgiven me! If treason 
would put me in his throne, I have no apology for it — it were worse 
than bestial ingratitude.” 

‘‘ Nobly spoken, m}'' lord,” said Christian; ‘‘ and consistent alike 
with the obligations under which your grace lies to Charles Stewart 
and the sense you have ever shown of them. But it signifies not. 
It your grace patronize not our enterprise, there is Shaftesbury — 
there is Monmouth — ” 

Scoundrel! ’ exclaimed the duke, even more vehemently agitat- 
ed than before, ‘‘ think you that you shall cairy on with otheis an 
enterprise which 1 have refused? No, by every heathen and every 
Christian god! Hark ye, Christian, 1 will arrest you on the spot 
— 1 will, by gods and devils, and carry you to unravel your plot at 
Whitehall.” 

‘‘Where the first words 1 speak,” answered the imperturbable 
Christian, ‘‘ will be to inform the Privy Council in what place they 
may find certain letters wherewith your grace has honored your 
poor vassal, containing, as 1 think, particulars which his majesty 
will read with more surprise than pleasure.” 

“ ’Sdeath, villain!” said the duke, once more laying his hand on 
his poniard -hilt, ‘‘ thou hast mo again at advantage. 1 know not 
why I forbear to poniard you where you stand!” 

” 1 might fall, my lord duke,” said Christian, slightly coloring, 
and putting his right hand into his bosom, ” though not, 1 think, 
unavenged— tor 1 have not put my person into this peril altogether 
without means of defense. 1 might fall, but, alas! your grace’s 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


403 


correspondence is in hands, which, by that very act, would be ren- 
dered sufficiently active in handing them to the king and the Privy 
Council. What say you to the Moorish princess, my lord duke? 
What if I have left her executrix of my will, with certain instruc- 
tions how to proceed if 1 return not unharmed from York Place? 
Oh, my lord, though rny head is in the wolf’s mouth, I was not 
goose enough to place it there without settling how many carbines 
should be fired on the wolf so soon as my dying cackle was heard. 
Pshaw, my lord duke, you deal with a man of sense and courage, 
yet you speak to him as a child and a coward.” 

The duke threw himself into a chair, fixed his eyes on the 
ground, and spoke without raising them. ‘‘ i am about to call 
Jerningham,” he said; “ but fear nothing— it is only for a draught 
of wine. That stufi on the table may be a vehicle for filberts and 
walnuts, but not for such communications as yours. Bring me 
champagne,” he said to the attendant who answered on his sum- 
mons. 

The domestic returned, and brought a flask of champagne, with 
two large silver cups. One of themlie filled for Buckingham, who, 
contrary to the usual etiquette, was always served first at home, and 
then offered the other to Christian, who declined to I’eceive it. 

The duke drank oft the large goblet which was presented to him, 
and, for a moment, covered his forehead with the palm of his hand; 
then instantly withdrew it and said, ” Christian, speak your errand 
plainly. We know" each other. If my reputation be in some degree 
in your hands, you are well aware that your life is in mine. Sit 
down,” he said," taking a pistol from his bosom and laying it on the 
table. ” Sit dowm, and let me hear your proposal.” 

“My lord,” said Christian, smiling, “1 shall produce no such 
ultimate argument on my part, though possibly, in time of need, 1 
may not be found destitute of them. But my defense is in the situ- 
ation of things and in the composed view, which, doubtless, your 
majesty will take of them.” 

“ Majesty!” repeated the duke. “ My good friend Christian, you 
have kept company with the Puritans so long, that you confuse the 
ordinary titles of the court.” 

“ 1 know not how to apologize,” said Christian, “ unless your 
grace will suppose that 1 spoke by prophecy.” 

“ Such as the devil delivered to Macbeth,” said the duke— again 
paced the chamber, and again seated himself, and said, “ Be plain, 
Cnristian— speak out at once, and manfully, wffiatis it you intend?” 

“ /.Y’ said Christian. “ What should 1 do? 1 can do nothing in 
such a matter; but 1 thought it right that your grace should know 
that the godly of this city ”— (he spoke the word with a kind of 
ironical grin)— “ are impatient of inactivity, and must needs be up 
and doing. My brother Bridgenorth is at the head of all old 
Weiver’s congregation ; for you must know, that, after floundering 
from one faith to another, he hath now got beyond ordinances, and 
is become a Fifth- Monarchy man. He has nigh two hundred of 
W^eiver’s people, fully equipped, and ready to fall on; and, with 
slight aid from your grace]s people, they must carry Whitehall, and 
make prisoners of all within it.” 


404 


PEVEKIL OE THE PEAK. 


“ Rascal!” said the duke, ” and is it to a peer of England you 
make this communication?” 

“ Nay,” answered Christian, ” 1 admit it would be extreme folly 
in your grace to appear until all is over. But let me give Blood 
and the others a hint on your part. There are the four Germans 
also— right Knipperdolings and Anabaptists— will be specially useful. 
You are wise, my lord, and know the value of a corps of domestic 
gladiators, as well as did Octavius, Lepidus, and Anthony, when, 
by such family forces, they divided the world by indenture tripar- 
tite.” 

” Stay, stay,” said the duke. ” Even if these bloodhounds were 
to join with you— not that 1 would permit it without the most posi- 
tive assurances for the king’s personal safety — but say the villains 
were to join, what hope have you of carrying the court?” 

” Bully Tom Armstrong,* my lord, hath promised his interest 
with the Life-Guards. Then there are my Lord Shaftesbury’s 
brisk boys in the city — thirty thousand on the holding up a finger.” 

” Let him hold up both hands, and if he count a hundred for each 
finger,” said the duke, ” it will be more than 1 expect. You have 
not spoken to him?” 

“ Surely not, till your grace’s pleasure was known. But, if he is 
not applied lo, there is (he Dutch train, Hans Snorehout’s congre- 
gation in the Strand — there are the Fiench Protestants in Piccadilly 
— there are the family of Levi in Lewkenor’s Lane— the Muggleto- 
nians in Thames Street — ” 

” Ah, faugh! Out upon them — out upon them! How the knaves 
will stink of cheese and tobacco when they come upon action! — they 
will drown all the perfumes in Whitehall. Spare me the detail; and 
let me know, my dearest Ned, the sum total of thy most odoriferous 
forces. ’ ’ 

” Fifteen hundred men, well armed,” said Christian, ” besides the 
rabble that will rise to a certainty — they have already nearly torn to 
pieces the prisoners who were this day acquitted on account of the 
Plot.” 

“ All, then, 1 understand. And now, hark ye, most Christian 
Christian,” said he, wheeling his chair full in front of that on which 
his agent was seated, ” you have told me many things to-day. Shall 
1 be equally communicative? Shall I show you that my accuracy 
of information matches yours? Shall 1 tell you, in a word, why 
you have at once resolved to push every one, from the Puritan to 
the free-thinker, upon a general attack of the Palace at Whitehall, 
without allowing me, a peer of the realm, time either to pause upon 
or to prepare for a step so desperate? Shall 1 tell you why you 
would lead or drive, seduce or compel me, into countenancing your 
measures?” 

” My lord, if you please to form a guess,” said Christian, ” I will 
answer with all sincerity, if you have assigned the right cause.” 

‘ ‘ The Countess of Derby is this day arrived, and attends the 
court this evening, with hopes of the kindest reception. She may 

* Thomas, or Sir Thomas Armstrong, a person who had distinguished him- 
self in youth by duels and drunken exploits. He was particulany connected 
with the Duke of Monmouth, and was said to be concerned in the Rye-House 
Plot, for which he suffered capital punishment, 20th June, 1684. 


PEYERIL OE THE PEAK. 405 

be surprised amid the melee? Ha! said I not right, Master Chris- 
tian! You, who pretend to otter me levenge, know yourself its ex- 
quisite sweetness,” 

“ 1 would not presume,” said Christian, half smiling, “ to offer 
your grace a dish without acting as your taster as well as purveyor.” 

” That's honestly said,” said the duke. ” Away then, my friend. 
Give Blood this ring — he knows it, and knows how to obey him 
who^ bears it. Let him assemble my gladiators, as thou dost most 
wittily term my coup jarrets. The old scheme of the German music 
may be resoited to, for I think thou hast the instruments ready. 
But take notice, 1 know nothing on’t; and Kowley’s person must be 
sate— 1 will hang and burn on all hands if a hair of his black peri- 
wig* be but singed. Then what is to follow— a lord protector of 
the realm — or stay — Cromwell has made the word somewhat 
slovenly and unpopular — a lord lieutenant of the kingdom! The 
patriots, who take it on themselves to avenge the injustice done to 
the country, and to remove evil counselors from before the king’s 
throne, that it may be henceforward established in righteousness— 
so 1 think the rubric runs — cannot fail to make a fitting choice.” 

‘‘They cannot, my lord duke,” said Christian, ‘‘since there is 
but one man in the three kingdoms on whom that choice can possi- 
bly fall.” 

”1 thank you, Christian,” said his grace; “and 1 trust you. 
Away, and make all ready. Be assured your services shall not be 
forgot. We will have you near to us.” 

“ My lord duke,” said Christian, “ 5 '’oubindme doubly to you. 
But remember, that as your grace is spared any obnoxious proceed- 
ings which may befall in the way of military execution, or other- 
wise, so it will be advisable that you hold yourself in preparation, 
upon a moment’s notice, to put yourself at the head of a band of 
honorable friends and allies, and come presently to the palace, 
where you will be received by the victors as a commander, and by 
the vanquished as a preserver. ’ ’ 

“ 1 conceive you — I conceive you. I will be in prompt readiness,” 
said the duke. 

“ Ay, my lord,” continued Christian; “ and, for Heaven’s sake, 
let none of those toys, which are the very Delilahs of your imagina- 
tion, come across your grace this evening, and interfere with the 
execution of this sublime scheme.” 

“ Why, Christian, dost think me mad?” was his grace’s emphatic 
reply. “ It is you who linger, when all should be ordered for a deed 
so daring. Go then. But hark ye, Ned; ere you go, tell me when 
1 shall again see yonder thing of fire and air — yon Eastern Peri, 
that glides into apartments by the keyhole, and leaves them through 
the casement — yon black-eyed houri of the Mohammed paradise— 
when, 1 say, shall I see her once more?” 

‘ ‘ When your grace has the truncheon of Lord Lieutenant of the 
Kingdom,” said Christian, and left the apartment. 

* Charles, to suit his dark complexion, always wore a black peruke. He 
used to say of his players, that if they wished to represent a villain on the 
stage, “Odds-flsh, they always clapp'd on him a black periwig, whereas the 
greatest rogue in England [meaning, probably. Dr. Oates] wears a white one.’* 
—See Cibber’s Apology.. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


406 

Buckingham stood fixed in contemplation for a moment, after he 
was gone, “ Should 1 have done this?” he said, arguing the matter 
with himself ; “or had 1 the choice, rather, of doing aught else? 
Should 1 not hasten to the court, and make Charles aware of the 
treason which besets him? 1 will by Heaven! Here, Jerningha,m, 
my coach, with the dispatch of light! 1 will throw myself at his 
feet, and tell him of all the follies which 1 have dreamed of with 
this Christian. And then he will laugh at me, and spurn me. JSTo, 
1 have kneeled to him to-day already, and my repulse was nothing 
gentle. To be spurned once in the sun’s daily round is enough for 
Buckingham.” 

Having made this reflection, he seated himself, and began hastily 
to mark down the young nobles and gentlemen of quality and 
others, their veiy ignoble companions, who he supposed might be 
likely to assume him for their leader in any popular disturbance. 
He had nearly completed it when Jerningham entered to say the 
coach would be ready in an instant, and to bring his master’s sword, 
hat, and cloak. 

“ Let the coachman draw off,” said the duke, “ but be in readi- 
ness. And send to the gentlemen thou wilt find named in this list; 
say 1 am but ill at ease, and wish their company to a slight colla- 
tion. Let instant expedition be made, and care not for expense; 
you will find most of them at the club-house in Fuller’s Kents.”* 

The preparations for festivity were speedily made, and the in- 
tended guests, most of them persons who were at leisure for any 
call that promised pleasure, though sometimes more deaf to those of 
duty, began speedily to assemble. There were many youths of the 
highest rank, and with them, as is usual in those circles, many of a 
different class, whom talents, or impudence, or wit, or a turn for 
gambling, had reared up into companions for the great and the gay. 
I'he Duke of Buckingham w^as a general patron of persons of this 
description; and a numerous attendance took place on the present 
occasion. 

The festivity was pursued with the usual appliances of wine, mu- 
sic and games of hazard; with which, however, there mingled in 
that period much more wit, and a good deal more gross profligacy of 
conversation than the talents of the present generation can supply 
or their taste would permit. 

The duke himself proved the complete command wbicli he pos- 
sessed over his veisatile character, by maintaining the frolic, the 
laugh, and the jest, while his ear caught up, and with eagerness, 
the most distant sounds, as intimating the commencement of Chris- 
tian’s revolutionary project. r)uch sounds were heard from time to 
time, and from time to time they died away, without any of those 
consequences which Buckingham expected. 

At length, and when it w^as late in the evening, Jerningham an- 
nouuced^Master Chiffinch from the court; and that worthy person- 
age follow'ed the annunciation. 

“ Strange things have happened, my lord duke,” he said; “ your 
presence at court is instantly required by his majesty.” 

“You alarm me,” said Buckingham, standing up. “1 hope 

* See Note FF.—Ftiller's Bents. 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


407 

nothing has happened— 1 hope there is nothing wrong— I hope his 
majesty is well?” 

“ Perfectly well,” said Chiffinch; “ and desirous .to see vour grace 
without a moment’s delay. ” 

“ This is sudden,” said the duke. ” You see 1 have had merry 
fellows about me, and am scarce in case to appear, Chifiinch. ” 

“ Your grace seems to be in very handsome plight, ” said Chifiinch; 

and you know his majesty is gTacious enough to make allowances. ” 

“ True,” said the duke, not a little anxious in his mind, touching 
the cause of this unexpected summons. ‘‘ True — his majesty is 
most gracious. I will order my coach.” 

“ Mine is below,” replied the royal messenger; “ it will save time, 
if your grace will condescend to use it.” 

Forced from every evasion Buckingham took a goblet from the 
table and requested his friends to remain at his palace so long as 
they could find the means of amusement there. He expected, he 
said, to return almost immediately; if not, he would take farewell 
of them with his usual toast, ” May all of us that are not hanged in 
the interval, meet together again here on the first Monday of next 
month.” 

This standing toast of the duke bore reference to the character of 
several of his guests; but he did not drink it on the present occasion 
without some anticipation concerning his own fate, in case Christian 
had betrayed him. He hastily made some addition to his dress, and 
attended Chiffinch in the chariot to Whitehall. 


CHAPTER XLA'. 

High feasting was there— the gilded roofs 
Rung to the wassail-health— tlie dancer’s step 
Sprung to the chord responsive— the gay gamester 
To fate’s disposal flung his heap of gold, 

And laugh’d alike when it increased or lessen’d : 

Such virtue hath court-air to teach us patience 
■Which schoolmen preach in vain. 

Why come ye not to Court ? 

Upon the afternoon of this eventful day, Charles held his court 
in the queen’s apartments, which were opened at a particular hour 
to invited guests of a certain lower degree, but accessible without 
restriction to the higher classes of nobility wdio had from birth, and 
to the courtiers who held by office, the privilege of the entree. 

It was one part of (Jharles’s character, which unquestionably ren- 
dered him personally popular, and postponed to a subsequent reign 
the precipitation of his family from the throne, that he banished 
from his court many of the formal restrictions with which it was in 
other reigns surrounded. He was conscious of the good-natured 
grace of his manners, and trusted to it, often not in vain, to remove 
ovil impressions arising from actions, which he was sensible could 
not be justified on the grounds of liberal or national policy. 

In the daytime the king -was commonly seen in the public walks 
alone, or only attended by one or two persons; and his answer to 
the remonstrance of his brother', on the risk of thus exjrosing his 
person, is well known; ” Believe me, James,” he .said, ” no one will 
murder me, to make yott king.” 


PEYEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


408 

lu the same manner, Charles’s evenings, unless such as were des- 
tined to more secret pleasures, were frequently spent amongst all 
who had any pretense to approach a courtly circle; and thus it was 
upon the night which we are treating of. Queen Catherine, recon- 
ciled or humbled to her fate, had long ceased to express anv feelings 
of jealousy, nay, seemed so absolutely dead to such a passion, that 
she received at her drawing-room, without scruple, and even with 
encouragement, the Duchesses of Portsmouth and Cleveland, and 
others, who enjoyed, though in a less avowed character, the credit 
of having been royal favorites. Constraint of every kind was ban- 
ished from a circle so composed, and which was frequented at the 
same time, if not by the wisest, at least by the wittiest courtiers 
who ever assembled round a monarch, and who, as many of them 
who had shared the wants, and shifts, and frolics of his exile, had 
then acquired a sort of prescriptive license, which the good-natured 
prince, when he attained his period of prosperity, could hardly have 
restrained had it suited his temper to do so. This, however, was the 
least of Charles’s thoughts. His manners were such as secured him 
from indelicate obtrusion; and lie sought no other protection from 
over-familiarity than what these and his ready wit afforded him. 

On the present occasion he was peculiarly disposed to enjoy the 
scene of pleasure which had been prepared. The singular death of 
Major Coleby, which, taking place in his own presence, had pro- 
claimed, witn the voice of a passing bell, the ungrateful neglect of 
the prince for whom he had sacrificed every thing had given Charles 
much pain. But, in his own opinion at least, he had completely 
atoned for this negligence, b}'' the trouble which he had taken for 
Sir Geoffrey Peveril," and his son, whoso liberation he looked upon 
not only as an excellent good deed in itself, but, in spite of the 
grave rebuke of Ormond, as achieved in a very pardonable manner, 
considering the difficulties with Which he was surrounded. He even 
felt a degree of satisfaction on receiving intelligence from the city 
that there had been disturbances in the streets, and that some of the 
more violent fanatics had betaken themselves to their meeting- 
houses, upon sudden summons, to inquire, as their preachers 
phrased it, into the causes of Heaven’s wrath, and into the backslid- 
ing of the court, lawyers, and jury, b3’’ whom the false and bloody 
favorers of the Popish Plot 'were screened and cloaked H’om de- 
served punishment. 

The king, we repeat, seemed to hear these accounts with pleasure, 
even when he was reminded of the dangerous and susceptible char- 
acter of those with whom such suspicions originated. “ 'Will any 
one now assert,” he said, with self-complacence, “ that 1 am so ut- 
terly negligent of the interest of friends? You see the peril in which 
1 place myself, and even the risk to which 1 have exposed the pub- 
lic peace, to rescue a man whom I have scarce seen for twenty 
years, and then only in his buff-coat and bandoleers, with other 
Train-Band officers who kissed hands upon .the Restoration. They 
say kings have long hands. 1 think they have as much occasion for 
long memories, since they are expected to watch over and re'vard 
every man in England, who hath but shown his good-will by crying 
‘ God save the King!’ ” 

” Kay, the rogues arc even more unreasonable still,” said Sedleyj 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


409 

** for every knave of them thinks himselt entitled to your majesty’s 
protection in a go^od cause, whetlier he has cried God save the king 
or no.” 

The king smiled, and turned to another part of the stately hall, 
where everything was assembled which could, according to the taste 
of the age, make the time glide pleasantly away. 

In one place, a group of the young nobility, and of the ladies of 
the court, listened to the reader’s acquaintance Empson, who was 
accompanying, with his unrivaled breathings on the flute, a young 
siren, who, while her bosom palpitated with pride and with fear, 
warbled to the courtly and august presence the beautiful air begin- 
ning, 

“ Young I am, and yet unskill’d 
How to make a lover yield,” etc. 

She performed her task in a manner so corresponding with the 
strains of the amatory poet, and the voluptuous air with which the 
words had been invested by the celebrated Purcel, that the men 
crowded around in ecstasies, while most of the ladies thought it 
proper either to look extremely indifierent to the words she sung, or 
to withdraw from the circle as quietly as possible. To the song suc- 
ceeded a concerto, performed by a select band of most admirable 
musicians, which the king, whose taste was indisputable, had him- 
self selected. 

At other tables in the apartment the elder courtiers worshiped 
Fortune, at the various fashionable games of omber, quadrille, haz- 
ard, and the like; while heaps of gold which lay. before the playeis, 
augmented or dwindled with every turn of a card or cast of a die. 
Many a year's rent of fair estates was ventured upon the main or the 
odds; which, spent in the old deserted manor-house, had repaired 
the ravages of Gromwell upon its walls, and replaced the sources of 
good housekeeping and hospitaltt}'', that, exhausted in the last age 
by fine and sequestration, were now in a fair way of being annihi- 
lated by careless prodigality. Elsewhere, under cover of observing 
the gamester, or listening to the music, the gallantries of that all-li- 
censed age were practiced among the gay and fair, closely watched 
the whilst by the ugly or the old, who promised themselves at least 
the pleasure of observing, and it may be that of proclaiming, in- 
trigues in which they could not be sharers. 

From one table to another glided the merry monarch, exchanging - 
now a glance with a court beauty, now a jest with a court wit, now 
beating time to the music, and anon losing or winning a few pieces 
of gold on the chance of tlie game to which he stood nearest; the 
most amiable of voluptuaries — the gayest and best-natured of com- 
panions— the man that would, of all others, have best sustained his 
character, had life been a continued banquet, and its only end to 
enjoy the passing hour, and send it away .as pleasantly as might be. 

But kings are least of all exempted from the ordinary lot of hu- 
manity; and Seged of Ethiopia is, amongst monarchs, no solitary 
example of the vanity of reckoning on a day or an hour of undis- 
turbed serenity. An attendant on the court announced suddenly to 
their majesties that a lady, who would only announce herself ^ a 
peeress of England, desired to be admitted into the presence. 


410 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


The queen said, hastily, it was impossible, peeress, without 
announcing her title, was entitled to the privilege of her rank. 

“ 1 could be sworn," said a nobleman in attendance, “ that it is 
some whim of the Duchess of Newcastle. " 

The attendant, who brought the message, said that he did indeed 
believe it to be the duchess, both from the singularity of the mes- 
sage, and that the lady spoke with somewhat a foreign accent. 

“ In the name of madness, then," said the king, " let us admit 
her. Her grace is an entire raree-show in her own person — a univer- 
sal masquerade — indeed a sort of private Bedlam-hospital, her whole 
ideas being like so many patients crazed upon the subjects of love 
ami literature, who act nothing in their vagaries, save Minerva, 
Venus, and the nine Muses.” 

" Your majesty’s pleasure must always supersede mine,” said the 
queen. “ 1 only hope I shall not be expected to entertain so fantas- 
tic a personage. The last time she came to court, Isabella,” (she 
spoke to one of her Portuguese ladies of honor) — ” you had not re- 
turned from our lovely Lisbon!— her gtace had the assurance to as- 
sume a right to bring a train-bearer into my apartment; and when 
this was not allowed, what then, think you, she did? even caused 
her train to be made so long, that three mortal yards of satin and 
silver remained in the antechamber, supported by four wenches, 
while the other end was attached to her grace’s person, as she paid 
her duty at the upper end of the presence-room. Full thirty yards 
of the most beautiful silk did her grace’s madness employ in this 
manner.” 

” And most beautiful damsels they were who bore this portentous 
train,”’ said the king — “ a train never equaled save by that of the 
great comet in sixty-six. Sedley and Etherege told us wonders of 
them; for it is one advantage of this new fashion brought up by the 
duchess, that a matron may be totally unconscious of the coquetry 
of ner train and its attendants.” 

” Am 1 to understand, then, your majesty’s pleasure is that the 
lady is to be admitted?” said the usher. 

‘‘ Certainly,” said the king; ” that is, if the incognito be really 
entitled to the honor. It may be as well to inquire her title — there 
are more mad- women abroad than the Duchess of Newcastle. 1 will 
walk into the anteroom myself, and receive 5 mur answer.” 

But ere Charles had reached the lower end of the apartment in 
his progress to the ante-room, the usher surprised the assembly by 
announcing a name which had not for many a year been heard in 
these courtly halls — ‘‘ the Countess of Derby!” 

Stately and tall, and still, at an advanced period of life, having a 
person unbroken by yearn, the noble lady advanced toward her 
sovereign, with a step resembling that with which she might have 
met an equal. There was indeed nothing in her manner that indi- 
cated either haughtiness or assumption unbecoming that presence; 
but her consciousness of wrongs sustained from the administration 
of Charles, and of the superiority of the injured party over those 
from whom, or in wdiose name, the injury had been offered, gave 
her look dignity, and her step firmness. She w^as dressed in widow’s 
weeds, of the same fashion which were worn at the time her hus- 
band was brought to the scatfold; and which, in the thirty years 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 411 

subsequent to that event, she had never permitted her tire-woman 
to alter. 

The surprise was no pleasing one to the king; and cursing in his 
heart the rashness which had allowed the lady entrance on the gay 
scene in which they were engaged, he saw at the same time the neces- 
sity of receiving her in a manner suitable to his own character, and 
her rank in the British court, tie approached her with an air of 
welcome, into which he threw all his natural grace, while he began, 
“ Ghere Comptesse de Derby, puissante Heine de Man, noire trh au- 
guste sceur — ” 

“ Speak English, sire, if 1 may presume to ask such a favor,” 
said the countess. “1 am a peeress of this nation— mother to one 
English earl, and widow, alas, to another ! In England I have spent 
my brief days of happiness, my long years of widowhood and sor- 
row. France and its language are but to me the dreams of au unin- 
teresting childhood. 1 know no tongue save that of my husband and 
my son. Permit me, as the widow and mother of Derby, thus to 
render my homage.” 

She would have kneeled, but the king gracefully prevented her, 
and, saluting her cheek, according to the form, Jed her toward the 
queen, and himself perfoimed the ceremony of introduction. 
‘‘ Your -majesty,” he said, ” must be informed that the countess has 
imposed a restriction on French — the language of gallantry and 
compliment. 1 trust 5 '’Our majesty will, though a foreigner, like 
herself, find enough of honest English to assure the Countess of 
Derby with what pleasure we see her at court, after the absence of 
so many years.” 

” 1 will endeavor to do so at least,” said the queen, on whom the 
appearance of the Countess of Derby made a more favorable im- 
pression than that of many strangers, whom, at the king’s request, 
she was in the habit of receiving with courtesy. 

Charles himself again spoke. ‘ ‘ To any other lady of the same 
rank 1 might put the question, why she was so long absent from the 
circle? 1 tear 1 can only ask the Countess of Derby what fortunate 
cause produces the pleasure of seeing her here?” 

” No fortunate cause, my liege, though one most strong and 
urgent.” 

The king augured nothing agreeable from this commencement ; 
and in truth, from the countess’s first entrance, he had anticipated 
some unpleasant explanation, wdiich he therefore hastened to parry, 
having first composed his features into an expression of sympathy 
and interest. 

“If,” said he, - “ the cause is of a nature in which we can render 
assistance, we cannot expect your ladyship should enter upon it at 
the present time ; but a memorial addressed to our secretary, or, it it 
is more satisfactory, to ourselves directly, will receive our immedi- 
ate, and I trust 1 need not add, our favorable construction.” 

The countess bowed with some state, and answered, “ My busi- 
ness, sire, is indeed important; but so brief, that it need not for more 
than a few minutes withdraw your ear from what is more pleasing; 
yet it is so urgent, that 1 am a'fraid to postpone it even for a mo- 
ment.” 

“ This is unusual,” said Charles. “ But you. Countess of Derby, 


412 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


are an unwonted guest, and must command my time. Does the mat- 
ter require my private eiir?” 

“ For my part,” said the countess, “ the whole court might list- 
en ; but your majesty may prefer hearing me in the presence ot one 
or two of your counselors.” 

” Ormond,” said the king, looking around, “ attend us for an 
instant— and do you, Arlington, do the same.” 

The king led the way into an adjoining cabinet, and, seating 
himself, requested the countess would also take a chair. “It needs 
not, sire,” she replied; then pausing for a moment, as if to collect 
her spirits she proceeded with firmness : 

“ Your majesty well said that no light cause had drawn me from 
my lonely habitation. 1 came not hither when the property of my 
son— that property which descended to him from a father who died 
for your majesty’s rights— was conjured away from him under pre- 
text of justice, that it might first feed the avarice of the rebel Fair- 
fax, and then supply the prodigality of his son-in-law, Bucking- 
ham. ’ ’ 

“These are over-harsh terms, lady,” said the king. “A legal 
penalty w^as, as we remember, incurred by an act of irregular vio- 
lence — so our courts and our laws term it, though personally 1 have 
no objection to call it, with you, an honorable revenge. But admit 
it were, such, in prosecution of the laws of honor, bitter legal conse- 
quences are often necessarily incurred.” 

“ 1 come not to argue for my son’s wasted and forfeited inherit- 
ance, sire,” said the countess; 1 only take credit for my patience, 
under that afflictiog dispensation. I now come to redeem the 
honor of the House of Derby, more dear to me than all the treas- 
ures and lands which ever belonged to it.” 

“ And by whom is the honor of the House of Derby impeached!” 
said the king; “ for on my word you bring me the first news of it.” 

“ Has there one narrative, as these wild fictions are termed, been 
printed with regard to the Popish Plot— this pretended Plot as I will 
call it — in which the honor ot our house has not been touched and 
tainted? And are there not two noble gentlemen, father and son, 
allies of the House of Stanley, about to be placed in jeopardy of their 
lives, on account of matters in which we are the parties first im- 
peached?” 

The king looked around, and smiled to Arlington and Ormond. 
“ The countess’s courage, methinks, shames ours. What lips dared 
have called the immaculate Plot pretended, or the narrative of the 
witnesses, our preservers from Popish knives, a wdld fiction? But, 
madam,” he said, “though 1 admire the generosity of your interfer- 
ence in behalf of the two Peverils, 1 must acquaint you, that your 
interference is unnecessary— they are this morning acquitted.” 

“Now may God be piaised!” said the countess, folding her 
hands. “ 1 have scarce slept since 1 heard the news ot their im- 
peachment ; and have arrived here to surrender myself to your maj- 
esty’s justice, or to the prejudices of the nation, in hopes, by so do- 
ing, 1 might at least save the lives of my noble and generous 
friends, enveloped in suspicion only, or chiefly, by their connection 
with us. Are they indeed acquitted?” 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 418 

“They are, by my honor.” said the king. “ 1 marvel you heard 
it not.” 

“ I arrived but last night, and remained in the strictest seclusion,” 
said the countess, “ afraid to make any inquiries that might occa- 
sion discovery ere 1 saw your majesty.” 

“And now that we 7i««jemet,” said the king, taking her hand 
kindly— “ a meeting which gives me the greatest pleasure— may I 
recommend to you speedily to return to^your ro 3 "al island with as 
little eclat as you came hither? The world, my dear countess, has 
changed since w^e were young. Men fought in the Civil War with 
good swords and muskets; but now we fight with indictments and 
oaths, and such like legal weapons. You are no adept in such war- 
fare; and though 1 am w'ell aw^are you know how to hold out a cas- 
tle, 1 doubt much if jmu have the art to parry off an impeachment. 
This Plot has come upon us like a land storm— there is no steering 
the vessel in the teeth of the tempest— we must run for the nearest 
haven, and happy if w^e can reach one.” 

“ This is cowardice, my liege,” said the countess. “ Forgive the 
word ! it is but a woman who speaks it. Call your noble friends 
around you, and make a stand like your royal father. There is but 
one right and one wrong — one honorable and forward course; and 
all others which deviate are oblique and unworthy.” 

“ Your language, my venerated friend,” said Ormond — who saw 
the necessity of interfering betwixt the dignity of the actual sov- 
ereign, and the freedom of tiie countess, who was generally accus- 
tomed to receive, not to pay observance—” your language is strong 
and decided, but it applies not to the times. It might occasion a 
renewal of the Civil War, and of all its miseries, but could hardly 
be attended with the effects you sanguinely anticipate.” 

“ You are too rash, my Lady Countess,” said Arlington, “not 
only to rush upon this danger yourself, but to desire to involve his 
majesty. Let me say plainly, that, in this jealous time, you have 
dorie but ill to exchange the security of Castle Rushin for the 
chance of a lodging in the Tower of London.” 

“ And were I to kiss the block there,” said the countess, “ as did 
my husband at Bolton-on-the-Moors, I would do so willingly, rather 
than forsake a friend! — and one, too, whom, as in the case of the 
younger Peveril, I have thrust upon danger.” 

“ But have 1 not assured you that both of the PeverJls, elder and 
younger, are freed froin, peril?” said the king; “ and, my dear 
countess, what can else tempt you to thrust yourself on danger, from 
which, doubtless, you expect to be relieved by my intervention? 
Methinks a lady of your judgment should not voluntarily throw 
herself into a river, merely that her friends might have the risk and 
merit of dragging her out.” 

The countess reiterated her intention to claim a fair trial. The 
two counselors again pressed their advice that she should withdraw, 
though under the charge of absconding from justice, and remain in 
her own feudal kingdom. 

The king, seeing no termination to the debate, gently reminded 
the countess that her majesty would be jealous if he detained her 
ladyship longer, and offered her his hand to conduct her back to the 
company. This she was under the necessity of accepting, and re- 


414 


PEVEKTL OF THE PEAK. 


turned accordingly to the apartments of state, where an event oc- 
ciirred immedialcly afterward, which must be transferred to the 
next chapter. 


CHAPTER XLYl. 

Here stand I tight and trim, 

Quick of eye, though little of limb; 

He who deuieth the word I have spoken. 

Betwixt him and me shall lances be broken. 

Lay of the Little John De Saintr6. 

When Charles had re-conducted the Countess of Derby into the 
presence-chamber, before he parted with her, he entreated her, in a 
whisper, to be governed by good counsel, and to regard her own 
safety; and then turned easily from her, as if to distribute !iis at- 
tentions equally among the other guests. 

These were a good deal circumscribed at the instant by the arrival 
of a party of five or six musicians; one of whom, a German, under 
the patronage of the Duke of Buckingham, was particularly re- 
nowned for his performance on the violoncello, but had been de- 
tained in inactivity in the antechamber by the non-arrival of his in- 
strument, which had now at length made its appearance. 

The domestic who placed it before the owner, shrouded as it was 
within its wooden case, seemed heartily glad to be rid of his load, 
and lingered for a moment, as if interested in discovering what sort 
of instrument was to be produced that could weigh so heavily. Plis 
curiosity was satisfied, and in a most extraordinary manner; for, 
while the musician was fumbling with the key, the case being for 
his greater convenience placed upright against the wall, the case 
and instrument itself at once flew open, and out started the dwarf, 
Geoffrey Hudson— at sight of whose unearthly appearance, thus 
suddenly introduced, the ladies shrieked, and ran backward; the 
gentlemen started, and the poor German, on seeing the portentous 
delivery of his fiddle-case, tumbled on the floor in an agon}'-, sup- 
posing, it might be, that his instrument was metamorphosed into the 
strange figure which supplied its place. So soon, however, as he 
recovered, he glided out of the apartment, and was followed by 
most of his companions. . 

“ Hudson!” said the king. ‘‘ My little old friend, 1 am not sorry 
to see }ou; though Buckingham, who I suppose is the purveyor of 
this jest, hath served us up but a stale one.” 

‘‘Will your majesty honor me Avith one moment’s attention?” 
said Hudson. 

‘‘ Assuredly, my good friend,” said the king. ‘‘Old acquaint- 
ances are springing up in every quarter to night; and our leisure 
can hardly be better employed than in listening to them. It was an 
idle trick of Buckingham,” he added, in a whisper to Ormond, ‘‘ to 
send the poor thing hither, especially as he was to-day tried for the 
affair of the Plot. At any rate, he comes not to ask protection from 
us, having had the rare fortune to come off Plot free. He is but 
fishing, 1 suppose, for some little present or pension.” 

The little man, precise in court etiquette, yet impatient of the 
king’s delaying to attend to him, stood in the midst of the floor. 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 415 

most valorous] y pawing and prancing, like a Scots pony assuming 
the airs of a war-horse, waving meanwhile his little hat with the 
tarnished feather, and bowing from time to time, as if impatient to 
be heard. 

“ Speak on, then, my friend,” said Charles; “ if thou hast some 
poetical address penned for thee, out with it, that thou mayest have 
time to repose these flourishing little limbs of thine.” 

‘‘No poetical speech have 1, most mighty sovereign,” answered 
the dwarf; “ but, in plain and most loyal prose, 1 do accuse, before 
this company, the once noble Duke of Buckingham of high treason!” 

‘‘Well spoken, and manfully. Get on, man,” said the king, 
who never doubted that this was the introduction to something bur- 
lesque or witty, not conceiving that the charge was made in solemn 
earnest. 

A great laugh took place among such courtiers as heard, and 
among many who did not hear, what was uttered by the dwarf ; the 
former entertained by the extravagant emphasis and gesticulation of 
the little champion, and the others laughing not the less loud that 
they laughed for example’s sake, and upon trust. 

‘‘ What matter is there for all this mirth?” said he, very indig- 
nantly. ‘‘Is it fit subject for laughing, that 1, Geoffrey Hudson, 
Knight, do, before king and nobles, impeach George Villiers, Duke 
of Buckingham, of high treason?” 

“No subject of mirth, certain!/,” said Charles, composing his 
features; “but great matter of wonder. Come, cease this mouth- 
ing, and prancing, and mummery. If there be a jest, come out with 
it, man; and if not, even get thee to the beauffet, and drink a cup of 
wine to refresh thee after thy close lodging.” 

“ 1 tell you, my liege,” said Hudson, impatiently, yet in a whis- 
per, intended only to be audible by the king, ‘ ‘ that if you spend 
overmuch time in trifling, you will be convinced by dire experience 
of Buckingham’s treason. 1 tell you— I asseverate to your majesty 
—two hundred armed fanatics will be hei;e within the hour, to sur- 
prise the guards.” 

“ Stand back, ladies,” said the king, “or 5 mu may hear more 
than you will care to listen to. My Lord of Buckingham’s jests are 
not always, you know, quite fitted for female ears; besides, we want 
a few woids in private with our little friend. You, my Lord of 
Ormond — you, Arlington” (and he named one or two others) 
“ may remain with us.” 

The gay crowd bore back, and dispersed through the apartment 
— the men to conjecture what the end of this mummery, as they 
supposed it, was likely to prove; and what jest, as Sedley said, the 
bass-fiddle had been brought tol^d of— and the ladies to admire and 
criticise the antique dress and richly embroidered ruff and hood of 
the Countess of Derby, to whom the queen was showing particular 
attention. 

“ And now, in the name of Heaven, and amongst friends,” said 
the king to the dwarf, “ what means all this?” 

“Treason, my lord the king! Treason to his Majesty of Eng- 
land! When 1 was chambered' in yonder instrument, my lord, the 
lligh-Diitch fellows who bore me, carried me into a certain chapel, 
to see, as they said to each other, that all was ready. Sire, 1 went 


416 PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 

where hasg-fiddle never went before, even into a conventicle of 
Fifth-Monarchists; and when they brought me away, the preacher 
was concluding his sermon, and was wdthin a ‘ Now to apply ’ of 
setting off like the bell-wether at the head of his flock, to surprise 
your majesty in your royal court! 1 heard him through the sound- 
holes of 'my instrument, when the fellow set me down for a mo- 
ment to profit by this precious doctrine.” 

It would be singular,” said Lord Arlington, “ were there some 
reality at the bottom of this buffoonery; for we know these wild 
men have been consulting together to-day, and five conventicles 
have held a solemn feast,” 

” Nay,” said the king, ” if that be the case, they are certainly de- 
termined on some villainy.’ 

” Might 1 advise,” said the Duke of Ormond, •* 1 would summon 
the Du he of Buckingham to this presence. His connections with 
the fanatics are well known, though he affects to conceal them.” 

” A oil would not, my lord, do his grace the injustice to treat him 
as a criminal on such a charge as this?” said the king, “How- 
ever,” he added, after a moment’s consideration, “ Buckingham is 
accessible to every sort of temptation, from the fliglitiness of his 
genius. 1 should not be surprised if he nourished hopes of an aspir- 
ing kind — 1 think w^e had some proof of it but lately. Hark ye, 
Chiftinch; go to him instantly, and bring him here on any fair pre- 
text thou canst devise. 1 would fain save him from what Iaw3"ers 
call an overt act. The court would be dull as a dead horse, were 
Buckingham to miscarry.*” 

“ Wid not your majesty order the Horse Guards to turn out?” 
said young Selby, who was present, and an offlcer. 

“No, Shelby,” said the king. “1 like not horse-play. But let 
them be prepared; and let the high bailiff collect his civil officers, 
and command the sherifis to summon their worshipful attendants 
from javelin-men to hangmen,* and have them in readiness, in case 
of any sudden tumult-double ’the sentinels on the doors of the 
palace — and see no strangers get in.” 

x-” Or out,” said the Duke of Ormond. “ Where are the foreign 
fellows who brought in the dwarf?” 

They were sought for, but they were not to be found. They had 
retreated, leaving their instruments — a circumstance which seemed 
to bear hard on the Duke of Buckingham, their patron. 

Hasty preparations were made to provide resistance to any effort 
of despair which the supposed conspirators might be driven to; and 
in the meanwhile, the king, withdrawing with Arlington, Ormond, 
and a few other counselors, into the cabinet where the Countess of 
Derby had had her audience, resumed the examination of the little 
discoverer. His declaration, though singular, was quite coherent; 
the strain of romance intermingled with it, being in fact a part of his 
character, which often gained him the fate of being laughed at, 
wdien he would otherwise have been pitied, or even esteemed 

He commenced with a flourish about his sufferings for the Plot, 
which the impatience of Ormond wmuld have cut short, had not the 
king reminded his grace, that a top, when it is not flogged, must 

* See Note G G. The Sheriff of London. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 417 

needs go down of itself at the end of a definite time, while the ap- 
plication of the whip maj’’ keep it tip for hours. 

. Geoffrey Hudson was, therefore, allowed to exhaust himself on the 
subject of his prison-house, which he informed the king was not 
without a beam of light — an emanation ot loveliness — a mortal angel 
— quick of step and beautiful of eye, who had more than once vis- 
ited his confinement with words of cheering and comfort. 

“ By my faith,” said the king, “ they fare better in Newgate than 
1 was aware of. Who should have thought of the little gentleman 
being solaced with female society in such a place?” 

“ 1 pray your majesty,” said the dwarf, aftei the manner of a sol- 
emn protest, to understand nothing amiss. My devotion to this 
fair creature is rather like what we poor Catholics pay to the blessed 
•saints, than mixed with any grosser quality. Indeed, she seems 
rather a S 5 dphid of the Rosicrucian system, than aught more carnal; 
being slighter, lighter, and less than the females ot common life, 
who have something of that coarseness of make which is doubtless 
derived from the sinful and gigantic race of the antediluvians.” 

” Well, say on, man,” quoth Charles. ” Didst thou not discover 
this sylph to be a mere mortal wench after all?” 

“ Who? 1, my liege? Oh, fie!” 

“ Nay, little gentleman, do not be so particularly scandalized,” 
•said the king; ‘‘ 1 promise you 1 suspect you ot no audacity of gal- 
lantry. ” 

time wears fast,” said the Duke of Ormond, impatiently, and 
looking at his watch. ” Chifflnch hath been gone ten minutes, and 
ten minutes will bring him back.” 

“True,” said Charles, gravely. “Come to the point, Hudson; 
and tell us what this female has to do with youi coming hither in 
this extraordinary manner.” 

“ Every thing, my lord,” said little Hudson. “ 1 saw her twice 
during my confinement in Newgate, and, in my thought, she is the 
very angel who guards my life and Avelfare; for, after my acquittal, 
•as I walked toward the city with two tall gentlemen, who had been 
in troulile along with me, and just w^hile we stood to our defense 
against a rascally mob, and just as 1 had taken possession of an ele- 
vated situation to have some vantage against the great odds of num- 
bers, I heard a heavenly voice sound, as it were, from a window be- 
hind me, counseling me to take refuge in a certain house; to wdiicli 
measure 1 readily persuaded my gallant friends the Reverils,^wdio 
have always shown themselves willing to be counseled by me.” 

“Showing therein their wisdom at once and modesty,” said the 
kino-. But what chanced next? Be brief— belike thyself, man.” 
- “°For a time, sire,” said the dwarf, “ it seemed as if 1 were not 
the principal object of attention. First, the younger Peveril %vas 
withdrawn from us by a gentleman of venei*able appearance, 
though something smacking of a Puritan, having boots of neat’s 
leather, and wearing his weapon without a swmrd-knot. When 
Master Julian returned, he informed us, for the first time, that we 
were in the power of a body of armed fanatics, wdio w'ere, as the 
poet sa}^, prompt for direful act. And your majesty will lemark, 
that both father and son were in some measure desperate, and disre- 
o-ardfui from that moment of the assurances which 1 gave them, 


PEYEIIIL OF THE PEAK. 


418 

that tlie star which 1 was bound to worship would, in her own time„ 
shine forth in signal of our safety. May it please your majesty, in 
answer to my hilarious exhoitations lo confidence, the father did but 
say tush, and the son pshaw, which showed how men’s prudence 
and manners are disturbed by atfliction. Nevertheless, these two 
gentlemen, the Peverils, forming a strong opinion of the necessity 
there was to break forth, were it only to convey a knowledge of these 
dangerous passages to your majesty, commenced an assault on the 
door of the apartment, 1 also assisting with the strength which 
Heaven hath given, and some threescore years have left me. We 
could not, as it unhappily proved, manage our attempt so silently 
but that our guards overheard us, and, entering in numbers, sepa- 
rated us from each other, and compelled my companions, at point of 
pike and poniard, to go to some other and more distant apartment, 
thus separating our fail society. 1 was again inclosed in the now 
solitary chamber, and 1 will own that 1 felt a certain depression of 
soul. But when bale is at highest, as the poet singeth, boot is at 
Highest, for a door of hope was suddenly opened — ” 

“ In the name of God, my liege,” said the Duke of Ormond, “ let 
this poor creature’s story be translated into the language of common 
sense by some of the scribblers of romances about court, and we 
may be able to make meaning of it.” 

Geoffrey Hudson looked with a frowning countenance of reproof 
upon the impatient old Irish nobleman, anrl said, with a very digni- 
fied air, “That one duke upon a poor gentleman's hand was 
enough at a lime, and that, but for his present engagement and de- 
pendency with the Duke of Buckingham, he would have endured 
no such terms from the Duke of Ormond.” 

“ Abate your valor, and diminish your choler, at our request, 
most puissant Sir Geoffrey Hudson,” said the king; “ and forgive 
the Duke of Ormond for my sake; but at all events go on with your 
story. ’ ’ 

Geoffrey Hudson laid his hand on his bosom, and bowed in proud 
and dignified submission to his sovereign; then waved his forgive- 
ness gracefully to Ormond, accompanied with a horrible grin, which 
he designed for a smile of gracious forgiveness and conciliation. 
“ Under the duke’s favor, then,” he proceeded, “ when 1 said a 
door of hope was opened to me, I meant a door behind the tapestry, 
from whence issued that fair vision — yet not so fair as lustrously 
dark, like the beauty of a continental night, where the cloudless 
azure sky shrouds us in a veil more lovely than that of day! but 1 
note your majesty’s impatience; enough. I followed my beautiful 
guide into an apartment, where there lay, strangely intermingled, 
warlike arms and musical instruments. Amongst these I saw my 
own late place of temporary obscurity— a violoncello. To my aston- 
ishment she turned around the instrument, and opening it behind 
by pressure of a spring, showed that it was filled with pistols, dag- 
gers, and ammunition made up in bandoleers. ‘These,’ she said,, 
‘ are this night destined to surprise the court of the unwary Charles^ 
— your majesty must pardon my using her own words; ‘ but if thou 
darest go in their stead, thou niayst be the savior of king and 
kingdoms; if thou art afraid, keep secret, 1 will myself try the ad- 
venture.’ Now, may Heaven forbid, that Geoffrey Hudson were 


PEVEBIL OF THE PEAK. 


419 

craven enough, said I, to let thee run such a risk! You kno\v not 
— you cannot know, what belongs to such ambuscades and conceal* 
ments— 1 am accustomed to them — have lurked in the pocket of a 
giant, and have formed the contents of a pasty. ‘ Get in then,’ she 
said ‘ and lose no time.’ Nevertheless, while 1 prepared to obey, I 
will not deny that some cold apprehensions came over my hot valor, 
and 1 confessed to her, if it might so be, 1 would rather find my 
way to the palace on my own feet. But she would not listen to 
me, saying hastily, ‘ 1 would be intercepted, or refused admittance, 
and that 1 must embrace the means she offered me of introduction 
into the presence, and when there, tell the king to be on his guard 
— little more is necessary; for once Ihe scheme is known, it becomes 
desperate. ’ Rashly and boldly, I bid adieu to the daylight which 
was then fading away. She withdrew the contents of the instru- 
ment destined for my concealment, and having put them behind the 
chimney-board, introduced me in their room. As she clasped me 
in, I implored her to warn the men who were to be intrusted with 
me, to take heed and keep the neck of the violoncello uppermost; 
but ere 1 had completed my request, I found I was left alone, and in 
darkness. Presently, two or three fellows entered, whom, by their 
language, which 1 in some sort understood, 1 perceived to be Germans, 
and under the influence of the Duke of Buckingham. 1 heard 
them receive from the leader a charge how they were to deport 
themselves, when they should assume the concealedarms— and— for 
1 will do the duke no’ wrong— 1 understood their orders were precise, 
not only to spare the person of the king, but also those of the court- 
iers, and to protect all who might be in the presence against an ir- 
ruption of the fanatics. In other respects, they had charge to dis- 
arm the gentlemen-pensioners in the guard-room, and, in fine, to 
obtain the command of the court.” 

The king looked disconcerted and thoughtful at this communica- 
tion, and bade Lord Arlington see that Selby quietly made search 
into the contents Of the other cases which had been brought as con- 
taining musical instruments. He then signed to the dwarf to pro- 
ceed in his story, asking him again and again, and very solemnly, 
whether he was sure that he heard the duke’s name mentioned, as 
commanding or approving this action. 

The dwarf answ^ered in the affirmative. 

“ This,” said the king, “ is carrying the frolic somewhat far.” 

The dw’^arf proceeded to state, that he was carried after his 
metamorphosis into the chapel where he heard the preacher seeming- 
ly about the close of his harangue, the tenor of which he also men- 
tioned. '\^^ords, he said, could not express the agony which he felt 
when he found that his bearer, in placing the instrument in a 
corner, w^as about to invert its position, in wdiich case, he said, 
human fraility might have proved too great for love, for loyalty, for 
irue obedience, nay, for the fear of death, which was like to ensue 
on discovery; and he concluded, that he greatly doubted he could 
not have stood on his head for many minutes without screaming 
aloud. 

” 1 could not have blamed you,” said the king; ” placed in such 
a posture in the royal oak, 1 m\ist needs have roared myself. Is this 
all you have to tell us of this strange conspiracy?” Sir Geoffrey 


420 


PEVEKIL OE THE PEAK. 


Hudson replied in the affirmative, and the king presently subjoined 
— ‘‘ Go, my little friend, your services shall not be forgotten. Since 
thou hast crept into the bowels of a fiddle for our service, we are 
bound, in duty and conscience, to find you a more roomy dwelling 
in future.” 

“ It was a violoncello, if your majesty is pleased to remember,” 
said the little jealous man, ‘‘ not a common fiddle; though, for your 
majesty's service 1 would have crept even into a kit.” 

” Whatever of that nature coula have been performed by any sub- 
ject of ours, thou wouldst have enacted in our behalf — of that we 
hold ourselves certain. Withdraw for a little; and hark ye, for the 
present, beware what you say about this matter. Let your appear- 
ance be considered —do you mark me — as a frolic of the Duke of 
Buckiugham; and not a word of conspiracy.” 

” Were it not beUer to put him under some restraint, sire?” said 
the Duke of Ormond, when Hudson had left the room. 

” It is unnecessary,” said the king. “ 1 remember the little wretch 
of old. Fortune, to make him the model of absurdit}”, has closed 
a most lofty soul within that little miserable carcass. For wielding 
his sword and keeping his word, he is a perfect Don Quixote in dec- 
imo-octavo. He shall be taken care of — But, Oddsfish, my lords, 
is not this freak of Buckingham too villainous and ungrateful?” 

“ He had not had the means of being so, had your majesty,” said 
the Duke of Ormond, “ been less lenient on other occasions.” 

‘‘My lord, my lord,” said Charles, hastily — ‘‘your lordship is 
Buckingham's Ipown enemy — we will take other and more impartial 
counsel. Arlington, what think you of all this?” 

‘‘ May it please your majesty,” said Arlington, “ I think the 
thing is absolutely impossible, unless the duke has had some 
quarrel with your majesty, of which we know^ nothing. His grace 
is very flighty, doubtless, but this seems actual insanity.” 

‘‘ Why, faith,” said the king, ” some words passed betwixt us 
this morning — his duchess it seems is dead — and to lose no time, his 
grace had cast his eyes about for means of repairing the loss, and 
had the assurance to ask our consent to woo my niece Lady Anne.” 

“ Which your majesty of course rejected?” said the statesman. 

“ And not without rebuking his assurance,” added the king. 

‘‘In private, sir, or before^ any witnesses?” said the Duke of 
Ormond. 

‘‘ Before no one,” said the king, — “ excepting, indeed, little 
Chiflinch; and he, you know, is no one.” 

“ Ilinc Him lachrymm,'’ said Ormond. “ 1 know his grace well. 
While the rebuke of his aspiring petulance was a matter betwixt 
your majesty and him, he might have let it pass by: but a check be- 
fore a fellow from whom it was likely enough to travel through the 
court, was a matter to be revenged.” 

Here Selby came hastily from the other room, to say, that his 
Grace of Buckingham had just entered the presence chamber. 

The king rose. “ Let a boat be in readiness, with a party of the 
yeomen,” said he. ‘‘ It may be necessary to attach him or treason, 
knd send him to the Tower.” 

“Should not a secretary of State’s warrant be prepared?” said 
Ormond. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 421 

“No, my lord duke,” said the king, sharply. “ 1 still hope that 
the necessity may be avoided.” 


CHAPTER XLVll. 

High reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. 

Richard III. 

Before giving the reader an account of the meeting betwixt 
Buckingham and his injured sovereign, we may mention a trifling 
circumstance oi two which took place betwixt his grace and 
Chiffinch, in the short drive betwixt 'York -Place and Whitehall, 

In the outset, the duke endeavored to learn from the courtier the 
special cause of his being summoned so hastily to the court 
Chiffinch answered, cautiously, that he believed there were some 
gambols going forward, at which the king desired the duke’s pres- 
ence. 

This did not quite satisfy Buckingham, for, conscious of hfs own 
rash purpose, he could not but apprehend discovery. After a mo- 
ment’s silence, “Chiffinch,” he said, abruptly, “did you mention 
to any one what the king said to me this morning touching the 
Lady Anne!” 

“ My lord duke,” said Chiffinch, hesitating, “ surely mj’" duty to 
the king — my respect to your grace—” 

“ You mentioned it to no one, then?” said the duke, sternly. 

“ To no one,” replied Chiffinch, faintly, for he was intimidated by 
the duke’s increasing severity of manner, 

“ Ye lie, like a scoundrel!” said the duke — “ You told Christian!” 

“ Y’our grace,” said Chiffinch — “ your grace— your grace ought to 
remember that 1 told you Christian’s secret; that the Countess of 
Derby was come up,” 

“ And you think the one point of treachery may balance for the 
other? But no. 1 must have a better atonement. Be assured 1 
will blow your brains out, ere you leave-this carriage, unless you 
tell me the truth of this message from court.” 

As Chiffinch hesitated what reply to make, a man, who, by the 
blaze of the torches, then always borne, as well b}^ the lackeys who 
hung behind the carriage, as by the footmen who ran by the, side, 
might easily see who sat in the coach, approached, and sung in a 
deep manly voice, the burden of an old French song, on the battle of 
Marignan, in which is imitated the German French of the defeated 
Swiss. 

“ Tout est verlore 
La tintelore. 

Tout est verlore 

Bei Got.” 

“1 am betrayed,” said the duke, who instantly conceived that 
this chorus, expressing “ all is lost,” was sung by one of his faith- 
ful agents, as a hint to him that their machinations were discovered. 

He attempted to throw himself from the carriage, but Chiffinch 
held him with a firm, though respectful grasp. “Do not destroy 
yourself, my lord,” he said,' in a tone of deep humility—” there are 
soldiers and officers of the peace around the carriage, to enforce your 


422 


PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


grace’s coming to Whitehall, and to prevent your escape. To at- 
tempt it •would be to confess guilt; and 1 advise you strongly against 
that — the king is youi friend-^be your own.” 

The duke, after a moment’s consideration, said sullenly, ” 1 be- 
lieve you are right. Why should 1 fly, when 1 am guilty ot nothing 
but sending some fireworks to entertain the court, instead of a con- 
oert of music?” 

“And the dwarf, who came so unexpectedly out of the bass- 
viol — ” 

” Was a masking device of my own, Chiffinch,” said the duke, 
though the circumstance was then first known to him. “ Chiffinch, 
you will bind me for ever, if you will permit me to have a minute’s 
conversation with Christian.” 

‘‘With Christian, my lord? Where could you find him? You 
are aware we must go straight on to the court.” 

” True,” said the duke, “ but 1 think 1 cannot i-niss finding him; 
and you. Master Chitfinch, are no officer, and have no warrant 
cither to detain me prisoner, or prevent my speaking to whom I 
please.” 

Chiffinch replied, ” My lord duke, your genius is so great, and 
your escapes so numerous, that it will be from no wish of my own 
if I am forced to hurt a man so skilful and so popular.” 

” Nay, then, there is life in it yet,” said the duke, and whistled; 
when, from beside the little cutler’s booth, with which the reader 
is acquainted, appeared, suddenly. Master Christian, and was in a 
moment at the side of the coach. ‘‘ Oanz isi valoren,” said the 
duke. 

‘‘ 1 know it,” said Christian; ” and all our godly friends are dis- 
persed upon the news. Lucky the colonel and these German rascals 
gave a hint. All is safe— You go to court. Hark ye, 1 will fol- 
low.” 

“You, Christian? that would be more friendly than wise.” 

” Why, what is there against me?” said Christian. “lam inno- 
cent as the child unborn — so is your grace. Tbere is but one creat- 
ure who can bear witness to our guilt; but 1 trust to bring her on 
the stage in our favor— besides, if 1 went not, 1 should presently be 
sent for.” 

“ The familiar of whom 1 have heard you speak, 1 warrant?” 

” Hark in your ear again.” 

” 1 understand,” said the duke, ” and will delay Master Chiffinch 
— for he, you must know, is my conductor— no longer. Well, 
Chiffinch, let them diive on. Vogve U Galere !'' he exclaimed, 
as the carriage went onward; ” 1 have sailed through worse perils 
than this yet. ’ ’ 

” It is not for me to judge,” said Chiffinch; ” your grace is a bold 
commander; and Christian hath the cunning of the devil for a pilot; 
but— However, 1 remain your grace’s poor fiiend, and will heartily 
rejoice in your extrication.” 

” Give me a proof of your friendship,” said the duke. ” Tell me 
•what you know of Christian familiar, as he calls ber.” 

” 1 believe it to be the same dancing wench who came with Emp- 
son t-o my house on the morning that Mistress Alice made her escape 
from us. But you have seen hei, my lord?” 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


42S 


“ 1?’' said the duke; “ when did 1 see her?” 

” She was employed by Christian, 1 believe, to set his niece at 
liberty, when he found himself obliged to gratify his fanatical broth- 
er-in- Jaw, by restoring his child; besides being prompted by a 
private desire, as 1 think, of bantering your grace.” 

” Umph! I suspected so much. 1 will repay it,” said the duke. 
” But first to get out of this dilemma, lliat little Numidian witch,, 
then, was his familiar; and she joined in the plot to tantalize me? 
But here we reach Whitehall. Kow, Chiffinch, be no worse than 
thy word, and— now, Buckingham, be thyself!” 

But ere we follow Buckingham into the presence, where he had 
so difficult a part to sustain, it may not be amiss to follow Christian 
after his brief conversation with him. On re-entering the house, 
which he did by a circuitous passage, leading from a distant alley, 
and through several courts, Christian hastened to a low matted 
apartment, in which Bridgenorth sat alone, reading the Bible by the 
light of a small brazen lamp, with the utmost serenity of counte- 
nance 

” Have you dismissed the Peverils?” said Christian, hastily. 

” I have,” said the major. 

“ And upon what pledge— that they will not carry information, 
against you to Whitehall?” 

“ They gave me their promise voluntarily, when 1 showed them 
our armed friends w’ere dismissed. To-morrow, 1 believe, it is their 
purpose to lodge informations.” 

“ And why not to-night, 1 pray you?” said Christian. 

‘‘ Because they allow us that time for escape.” 

“ Why, then, do you not avail yourself of it? Wherefore are you 
here?” said Christian. 

” Nay, rather, wh}'- do you not fly?” said Bridgenorth. “Of a 
surety, you are as deeply engaged as I.” 

“ Brother Bridgenorth, lam the fox, who knows a hundred modes 
of deceiving the Rounds, you are the deer, whose sole resource is in 
hasty flight. Therefore lose no time — begone to the country — or 
rather, Zedekiah Fish’s vessel, the * Good Hope,’ lies in the river, 
bound for Massachusetts — take the wings of the morning, and be- 
gone— she can fall down to Gravesend with the tide.” 

“ And leave to thee, brother Christian,” said Bridgenorth, “ the 
charge of my fortune and my daughter? No, brother; my opinion, 
of .your good faith must be re-established ere 1 again trust thee.” 

“ Go thy ways, then, for a suspicious fool,” said Christian, sup- 
pressing his strong desire to u.'fe language more offensive ; “ or rather 
stay where thou art, and take thy chance of the gallows!” 

“It is appointed to all men to die once,” said Bridgenorth; 
“ my life hath been a living death. M.y fairest boughs have been 
stripped by the ax of the forester — that which survives must, if it 
shall blossom, be grafted elsewhere, and at a distance from my aged 
trunk. The sooner, then, the root feels the ax, the stroke is more 
welcome. I had been pleased, indeed, had 1 been called to bringing 
3 ’-onder licentious court to a purer character, and relieving the yoke 
of the suffering people of God. Tiiat youth too— son to that pre- 
cious woman, to whom 1 owe the last tie that feebly links my wearied 
spirit to humanity — could 1 have travailed with him in the good 


424 


PEVEPJL OF THE PEAK. 


cause! But that, with all my other hopes, is broken for ever; and 
since 1 am not worthy to be an instrument in so great a work, I have 
little desire to abide longer in this vale of sorrow.” 

“Farewell, then, desponding fool!” said Christian, unable, with 
all his calmness, any longer to suppress his contempt for the resigned 
and hopeless predestinarian. “ That fate should have clogged me 
with such confederates!” he muttered, as he left the apartment — 

this bigoted fool is now nearly irreclaimable — 1 must to Zarah; for 
she, or no one, must carry us through these straits. If 1 can but 
soothe her sullen temper, and excite her vanity to action — betwixt her 
address, the king’s partiality for the duke, Buckingham’s match- 
less effrontery, and my own hand upon the helm, we may yet 
weather the tempest that darkens around us. But what we do must 
be hastily done.” 

In another apartment he found the person he sought — the same 
who visited the Duke of Buckingham’s harem, and, having relieved 
Alice Bridgenoith from her confineuient there, had occupied her 
place as has been already narrated, or rather intimated. She was 
now much more plainly attired than when she had tantalized the 
duke with her presence; but her dress had still something of the 
Oriental character, which corresponded with the dark complexion 
and quid?; eye of the wearer. She had the kerchief at her eyes as 
Christian entered the apartment, but suddenly withdrew it, and, 
flashing on him a glance of scorn and indignation, asked him what 
he meant by intruding where his company was alike unsought tor 
•and undesired. 

“ A. proper question,” said Christian, “ from a slave to her mas- 
ter!” 

“ Rather say, a proper question, and of all questions the most 
-proper, from a mistress to her slave! Know you not, that from the 
hour in which you discovered your ineffable baseness, you have 
made me mistress of your lot? While you seemed but a demon of 
vengeance, you commanded terror, and to good purpose; but such 
a foul fiend as thou hast of late shown thyself — such a very worth- 
less, base trickster of the devil — such a" sordid groveling imp of 
perdition, can gain nothing but scorn from a soul like mine.” 

“ Gallantly mouthed,” said Christian, “ and with good emphasis.” 

“ Yes,” answered Zarah. “ 1 can speak— sometimes — I can also 
be mute; and that no one knows better than thou.” 

“ Thou art a spoiled child, Zarah, and dost but abuse th^ indul- 
gence 1 entertain for your freakisli humor,” replied Christian; thy 
wits have been disturbed since ever ybu landed in England, and all 
for the sake of one who cares fox thee no more than for the most 
worthless object who walks the streets, amongst whom he left you 
to engage in a brawl for one he loved better.” 

“It is no matter,” said Zarah, obviously repressing very bitter 
emotion; “ it signifies not that he loves another better ; . there is none 
— no, none — that ever did, or can, love him so well.” 

“ 1 pity you, Zarah!” said Christian, with some scorn. 

“ I deserve your pity,” she replied, “ were your pity worth my 
accepting. Whom have 1 to thank for my wretchedness but you? 
You bred me up in thirst of vengeance, ere I knew that good and 
evil were any thing better than names;— to gain your applause, and 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


425- 

to gartify tlie vanity you bad excited, 1 have for years undergone a 
penance, from which a thousand would have shrunk.” 

“A thousand, Zarah!” answered Christian; ‘‘ay, a hundred 
thousand, and a million to boot; the creature is not on earth, being- 
mere mortal woman, that would have undergone the thirtieth part 
of thy self-denial. ” 

‘‘ 1 believe it,” said Zarah, drawing up her slight but elegant tig- ' 
ure; ” 1 believe it — 1 have gone through a trial that few indeed could 
have sustained. 1 have renounced the dear intercourse of my kind 
compelled my tongue only to utter, like that of a spy, the knowl- 
edge which my ear had only collected as a base eavesdropper. This 
1 have done for years — for years — and all for the sake of your private 
applause— and the hope of vengeance on a woman, who, if she did 
ill in murdering my father, has been bitterly repaid by nourishing a 
serpent in her bosom, that had the tooth, but not the deafened ear,, 
of the adder.” 

‘‘ TV'ell — well — well,” reiterated Christian; “and had you not 
your reward in my approbation — in the consciousness of your own 
unequaled dexterity— by which, superior to any thing of thy sex 
that history has ever known, you endured what woman never be- 
fore endured, insolence without notice, admiration without answer,, 
and sarcasm without reply?” 

“Not without reply!” said Zarah, fiercely. “ Gave not Nature to 
my feelings a course of expressions more impressive than words? 
and did not those tremble at my shrieks, who would have little 
minded my entreaties or my complaints? And my proud lady, who 
sauced her charities with the taunts she thought 1 heard not — she 
was justly paid by the passing of her dearest and most secret 
concerns into the hands of her mortal enemy ; and the vain earl — yet 
he was a thing as insignificant as the plume that nodded in his cap; 

— and the maidens and ladies who taunted me — 1 had, or can easily 
have, my revenge upon them. But there is one,’" she added, looking 
upward, “ who never taunted me; one whose generous feelings 
could treat the poor dumb girl even as his sister; who never spoke 
a word of her but it was to excuse or defend — and you tell me X 
must not love him, and that it is madness to love him 1 1 be 
mad then, for I will Jove him till the latest breath of my life!” 

“ Think but an instant, silly girl— silly but in one respect, since 
in all others thou mayest brave the world of women. Think what 
I have proposed to thee, for the loss of this hopeless affection, a 
career so brilliant! Think only that it rests with thyself to be the 
wife — the wedded wife— of the princely Buckingham! With my 
talents— with thy wit and beauty— with his passionate love of these 
attributes — a short space might rank you among England’s prin- 
cesses. Be but guided by me— he is now at deadly puss— needs 
every assistance to retrieve his fortunes — above all, that which we 
alone can render him. Put yourself under my conduct, and not fate 
itself shall prevent your wearing a duchess’s coronet.” 

“ A coronet of thistle-down, entwined with thistle-leaves,” said 
Zarah. “1 know not a slighter thing than jmur Buckingham ! I 
saw him at your request— saw him when, as a man, he should have 
shown himself generous and noble— 1 stood the proof at your desire, 
lor 1 laugh at those dangers from wdiich the poor blushing wallers 


426 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


of my sex shrink and withdraw themselves. What did 1 find him? 
— a poor wavering voluptuary — his nearest attempt to passion like 
the fire on a wretched stubble- field, that may singe, indeed, or 
smoke, but can neither warm nor devour. Christian! were his 
<;oronet at my feet this moment, 1 would sooner take up a crown of 
gilded gingerbread, than extend my hand to raise it.” 

” You are mad, Zarah — with all your taste and talent, you are ut- 
terly mad! But let Buckingham pass — Do you owe me nothing on 
this emergency ? Nothing to one who rescued you from the cruelty of 
your owner, the posture-master, to place you in ease and affluence?” 

” Cbristian,” she replied, ” 1 owe you much. Had 1 not felt 1 did 
so, 1 would, as 1 have been often tempted to do, have denounced 
thee to the fierce countess, who would have gibbeted you on her 
feudal walls of Castle-Rushin, and bid your family seek redress from 
the eagles, that w^ould long since have thatched their nest with your 
hair, and fed their young ospreys with your flesh.” 

‘‘ I am truly glad you have had so much forbearance for me,” an- 
swered Christian. 

” 1 have it, in truth, and in sincerity,” replied Zarah — ” Not for 
your benefits to me — such as they were, they were every one inter- 
ested, and conferred from the most selfish considerations. 1 have 
overpaid them a thousand times by the devotion to your will, which 
1 have displaycii at the greatest personal risk. But till of late, 1 re- 
spected your powers of mind —your inimitable command of passion 
— the force of intellect wdiich 1 have ever seen you exercise over all 
others, from the bigot Bridgenorth to the debauched Buckingham — 
in that, indeed, 1 have recognized my master.” 

“ And those powers,” said Christian, “ are unlimited as ever; and 
with thy assistance, thou shalt see the strongest meshes that the 
laws of civil society ever wove to limit the natural dignity of man, 
broke asunder like a spider’s web.’' 

She paused, and answered, “ While a noble motive fired thee— ay, 
a noble motive, though irregular — for 1 was born to gaze on the sun 
which the pale daughters of Europe shrink from — 1 could serve thee 
—1 could have followed, while revenge or ambition had guided thee 
— but love of wealth, and by what means acquired! What sympathy 
can 1 hold with that? Wouldst thou not liave pandered to the lust 
of the king, though the object was thine own orphan niece? Y^ou 
smile? Smile again when 1 ask you whether you meant not my own 
prostitution, when you charged me to remain in the house of that 
wretched Buckingham? Smile at that question, and by Heaven 1 
stab 3 mu to the heart!” And she thrust her hand into her bosom, 
and partly showed the hilt of a small poniard. 

” And if 1 smile,.” said Christian, “ U is but in scorn of so odious 
an accusation. Girl, 1 will not tell thee the reason, but there exists 
not on earth the living thing over whose safety and iionor I would 
keep watch as over thine. Buckingham’s wife, indeed, 1 wished 
thee; and, through thy own beauty and thy wit, 1 doubted not to 
bring the match to pass.” 

“Vain flatterer,” said Zarah, yet seeming soothed even by the 
flattery which she scoffed at, ” j^ou would persuade me that it was 
honorable love which you expected the duke was to have offered 
me. How durst you urge so gross a deception, to which time, place, 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


427 

and circumstance gave the lie? How daie you now again mention 
it, when you well know, that at the time you mention, the duchess 
was still in life?” 

‘‘ In life, but on her deathbed,” said Christian; ‘‘ and for time, 
place, and circumstance, had your virtue, my Zarah, depended on 
these, how couldst thou have been the creature thou art? 1 knew 
thee all-sufficient to bid him defiance — else — for thou art dearer to 
me than thou thinkest — I had not risked thee to win the Duke of 
Buckingham ; ay, and the kingdom of England to boot. So now, 
wilt thou be ruled, and go on with me?” 

Zarah, or Fenella, for our readers must have been long aware of 
the identity of these two personages, cast down her eyes, and was 
silent for a long time. ‘‘ Christian.” she said at last, in a solemn 
voice, ” if my ideas of right and of wrong be wild and incoherent, I 
owe it, first, to the wild fever which my native sun communicated 
to my veins; next to my childhood, trained amidst the shiits, tricks, 
and feats of jugglers and mountebanks; and then, to a youth of 
fraud and deception, through the course thou didst prescribe me, in 
which 1 might, indeed, hear every thing, but communicate with no 
one. The last cause of my wild errors, if such they are, originates, 
O Christian, with you alone; by Whose intrigues 1 was placed with 
yonder lady, and who taught me, that to revenge my father’s death 
was my first great duty on earth, and that 1 was bound by nature to 
hate and injure her by whom ]. was fed and fostered, though as she 
would have fed and caressed a dog, or any other mute animal. I 
also think — for 1 will deal fairly with you — that you had not so 
easily detected your niece in the child Whose surprising agility was 
mating yonder brutal mountebank’s fortune; nor so readily induced 
him to part with his bond-slave, had you not, for j^our own pur- 
poses, placed me under his charge, and reserved the privilege of 
claiming me when you pleased, 1 could not, under any other 
tuition, have identified myself with the personage of a mute, which 
it has been your desire that 1 should perform through life.” 

‘‘You do me injustice, Zarah,” said Christian — ‘‘ 1 found you 
capable of discharging, to an uncommon degree, a task necessary to 
the avenging of your father’s death— 1 consecrated you to it, as 1 
consecrated my own life and hopes; and you held the duty sacred 
till these mad feelings toward a youth who loves your cousin — ” 

” Who — loves — rny — cousin,” repeated Zarah (for we will con- 
tinue to call her by her real name), slowly, and as if the words 
dropped unconsciously from her lips. “Well — be it so! Man of 
many wiles, 1 will follow thy course for a little, a very little fuither; 
but take heed— tease me not with remonstrances against the treasure 
of my secret thoughts — 1 mean my most hopeless alfection to Julian 
Peveril— and bring me not as an assistant to any snare which you 
may design to castnround him. You and your 'duke shall rue the 
liour most bitterly, in which you provoke 'me. You may suppose 
you have me in your power; but remember, the snakes of my burn- 
ing climate are never so fatal as wdien you grasp them.” 

‘‘ 1 care not for these Peverils,” said Christian — ” 1 care not for 
their fate a poor straw, unless where it bears on that of the destined 
wmman wiiose hands are red in your father’s blood. Believe me, 1 
can divide her fate and theirs. 1 will explain to you how. And for 


428 PEYEEIL OF THE PEAK. 

the duke, he may pass among men of the town for wit, and among 
soldiers for valor, among conrtiers for manners and for form; and 
why, with his high rank and immense fortune, you should throw 
away an opportunity, which, as 1 could now improve it-^ 

“ Speak not of it,"” said Zarah, “ if thou wouldst have our truce — 
remember it is no peace— if , 1 say, thou wouldst have our truce grow 
to be an hour old!” 

” This, then,” said Christian, with a last effort to work upon the 
vanity of this singular being, “ is she who pretended such superi- 
ority to human passion, that she could walk indifferently and un- 
moved through the halls of the prosperous, and the prison cells of 
the captive, unknowing and unknown, sympathizing neither with 
the pleasures of the one, nor the woes of the other, but advancing 
with sure, though silent steps, her own plans, in despite and regard- 
less of either 1” 

“ My own plans!” said Zarah. “ Thy plans, Christian — thy plans 
of extorting from the surprised prisoners means whereby to convict 
them — thine own plans, formed with those more powerful than thy- 
self, to sound men's secrets, and, ly using them as matter of accu- 
sation, to keep up the great delusion of the nation.” 

‘‘ Such access was indeed given you as my agent,” said Christian, 
“ and for advancing a great national change. But how did you use 
it? — to advance your insane passion.” 

“ Insane!” said Zarah— “ Had he been less than insane whom I 
addressed, he and 1 had ere now been far from the toils which you 
have pitched lor us both. 1 had means prepared for every thing; 
and ere this, the shores of Britain had been lost to our sight for ever.^.’ 

” The dwarf, too,” said Christian — ” was it 'worthy of you to de- 
lude that poor creature with flattering visions — lull him asleep with 
drugs? VYas my doing?” 

“ Ho was my destined tool,” said Zarah, haughtily. “ 1 remem- 
bered your lessons too well not to use him as such. Yet scorn him 
not too much. 1 tell you, that 5 'on veiy miserable dw^arf, whom 1 
made my sport in the prison — yon wretched abortion of nature, 1 
would select for a husband, ere I would marry jmur Buckingham; 
— the vain and imbecile pigmy has yet the warm heart and noble 
feelings that a man should hold his highest honor.” 

“ In God’s name, then, take your own way,” said Christian; 
“ and, for my sake, let never man hereafter limit a woman in the use 
of her tongue, since he must make it amply up to her in allowing 
her the privilege of her own will. Who would have thought it? 
But the colt has slipped the bridle, and 1 must needs follow, since I 
cannot guide her. ” 

- Oui narrative returns to the court of King Charles at Whitehall. 


CHAPTER XLYlll. 

But oh ! 

What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop ; thou cruel, 

Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature? 

Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels. 

That knew’st the very bottom of my soul, 

, That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold, 

^Wouldst thou have px*acticed on me for thy use?— Henry V. 

* At no period of his life, not even when that life was in imminent 
danger, did the constitutional gayety of Charles seem more over- 


PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


429 

clouded than when waiting tor the return of 'ChifRnch with the 
Duke of Buckingham. His mind revolted at the idea that the per- 
son to whom, he had been so particularly indulgent, and whom he 
had selected as the friend of his lighter horn’s and amusements, 
should prove capable of having tampered with a plot apparently di- 
rected against his liberty and life, lie more than once examined 
the dwarf anew, but could extract nothing more than his first nar- 
rative contained. The apparition of the female to him in the cell of 
Newgate, he described in such fanciful and romantic colors, that the 
king could not help thinking, the poor man’s head a little turned; 
and, as nothing was found in the kettledrum and other musical in- 
struments brought for the use of the duke’s band of foreigners, he 
nourished some slight hope that the whole plan might be either a 
mere jest, or that the idea of an actual conspiracy was founded in 
mistake. 

The persons who had been dispatched to watch the motions of Mr. 
Weiver’s congregation brought back Avord that they had quietly dis- 
persed. It was known, at the same time, that they had met in arms, 
but this augured no particular design of aggression, at a time when 
all true Protestants conceived themselves in danger of immediate 
massacre; when the fathers of the city had repeatedly called out the 
Train-Bands, and alarmed the citizens of London, under the idea of 
an instant insurrection of the Catholics; and Avhen, to sum the whole 
up in the emphatic words of an alderman of- the day, there was a 
general belief that they w^ould all waken some unhappy morning 
with their throats cut. Who was to do these dire deeds it was more 
difiicult to suppose; but all admitted the possibility that they might 
be achieved, since one justice of the peace was already murdered. 
There was, therefore, no inference of hostile intentions against the 
State, to be decidedly derived from a congregation of Protekants par 
excellence, military from old associations, bringing their arms with 
them to a place of worship, in the midst of a panic so universal. 

Neither did the violent language of the minister, supposing that to 
be proved, absolutely infer meditated violence. The favorite para- 
bles of the preachers, and the metaphors and ornaments which they 
selected, were at all times of a military cast; and the taking the 
kingdom of heaven by storm, a strong and beautiful metaphor, when 
used generally, as in Scripture, was detailed in their sermons in all 
the technical language of the attack and defense of a fortified place. 
The danger, in short, whatever might have been its actual degree, 
had disappeared as suddenly as a bubble upon the water, w^hen 
broken b}^ a casual touch, and had left as little trace behind it. It 
became, therefore, matter of much doubt, whether it had ever act- 
ually existed. 

While various reports w^ere making from without, and w^hile their 
tenor was discussed by the king, and such nobles and statesmen as 
he thought proper to consult on the occasion, a gradual sadness and 
anxiety mingled tvith, and finally silenced, the mirth of the evening. 
All became sensible that something unusual was going forward; and 
the unwonted distance which Charles maintained from his guests, 
while it added greatly to the dullness that began to predominate ia 
the presence-chamber, gave intimation that something unusual was 
laboring in the king’s mind. 


430 


PEVEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


Thus play was neglected— the music was silent, or played without ^ 
being heard— gallants ceased to make compliments, and ladies to 
expect them; and a sort of apprehensive curiosity pervaded the 
circle. Each asked the others why they were grave; and no answer 
was returned, any more than could have been rendered by a herd of 
cattle instinctively disturbed by the approach of a thundp’-storm. 

To add to the general apprehension, it began to be whispered that 
one or two of the guests, who were desirous of leaving the palace, 
had been informed no one could be permitted to retire until the gen- 
eral hour of dismissal. And these, gliding back into the hall, com- 
municated in whispers that the sentinels at the gates were doubled, 
and that there was a troop of the Horse Guards drawn up in the 
court — circumstances so unusual, as to excite the most anxious 
curiosity. 

Such was the slate of the court, when wheels were heard without, 
and the bustle which took place denoted the arrival of some person 
of consequence. 

“Here comes Chiffinch,” said the king, “with his prey in his 
clutch.” 

It was indeed the Duke of Buckingham; nor did hj3 approach the 
royal presence without emotion. On entering the court, the flam- 
beaux which were borne around the carriage gleamed on the scarlet 
coats, laced hats, and drawn broadswords pf the Horse Guards —a 
sight unusual, and calculated to strike terror into a conscience which 
was none of the clearest. 

The duke alighted from the carriage, and only said to the officer, 
whom he saw upon duty, “ You are late under arms to-night. Cap- 
tain Carleton.” 

“ Such are our orders, sir,” answered Carleton, with military 
brevity; and then commanded the four dismounted sentinels at the 
under gate to make way for the Duke of Buckingham. His grace 
had no sooner entered, than he heard behind him the command, 

“ Move close up, sentinels — closer yet to the gate.” And he felt as 
if all chance of rescue were excluded by the sound. 

As he advanced up the grand staircase, there were other symptoms 
of alarm and piecaution. The Yeomen of the Guard were mustered 
in unusual numbers, and carried carbines instead of their halberds; 
and the Gentlemen Pensioners, with their partisans, appeared also in 
proportional force. In short, all that sort of defense which the 
royal household possesses within itself, seemed, for some hasty and 
urgent reason, to have been placed under arms, and upon duty. 

Buckingham ascended the royal staircase with an eye attentive to 
these preparations, and a step stead}’’ and slow, as if he counted each 
step on which he trode. “ Who,” he asked himself, “ shall insure 
Christian’s fidelity? Let him but stand fast and we are secure. 
Otherwise — ” 

As he shaped the alternative, he entered the presence-chamber. 

The king stood in the midst of the apartment, surrounded by the 
personages with whom he had been consulting. The rest of the 
brilliant assembly, scattered into groups, looked on at some distance. 
All were silent when Buckingham entered, in hopes of receiving 
some explanation of the mysteries of the evening. All bent forward 
though etiquette forbade^ them to advance, to catch, if possible' 


PEVERIL OE THE PEAK. 


431 


something of what was about to pass betwixt the king and his in- 
triguing statesman. At the same time, those counselors who stood 
around Charles, drew back on either side, so as to permit the duke 
to pay his respects to his majesty in tlie usual form. He went 
through the ceremonial with his accustomed grace, but was received 
by Charles with much unwonted gravity. 

"We have waited for you for some time, ray lord duke. It is 
long since ChifRnch left us, to request your attendance here. I see 
you are elaborately dressed. Your toilet was needless on the pres- 
ent occasion. ” 

"Needless to the splendor of your majesty’s court," said the 
duke, " but not needless on my part. This chanced to be Black 
Monday at York Place, and my club of Pendahles were in full glee 
when your majesty’s summons arrived. 1 could not be in the com- 
pany of Ogle, ManidUc, Dawson, and so forth, but w»^hat 1 must 
needs make some preparation, and some ablution, ere entering the 
circle here." 

" 1 trust the purification will be complete," said the king, without 
any tendency to the smile which always softened features, that, un- 
gilded by its influence, were dark, harsh, and even severe. "We 
wished to ask your grace concerning the import of a sort of musical 
mask which you designed us here, but which miscarried, as we are 
given to understand. 

" It must have been a great miscarriage indeed," said the duke, 

since your majesty looks so serious on it. 1 thought to have done 
your majesty a pleasure (as 1 have seen you condescend to be pleased 
with such passages) by sending the contents of that bass-viol ; but 1 
fear the jest has been unacceptable — 1 fear the fireworks may have 
done misehief." 

"Not the mischief they were designed for, perhaps," said the 
king, gravely; " you see, my lord, Tve are all alive, and unsinged." 

" Long may your majesty remain so," said the duke; " yet 1 see 
that there is something misconstrued on my part— it must be a mat- 
ter unpardonable, however little intended, since it hath displeased so 
indulgent a master." 

"Too indulgent a master, indeed, Buckingham," replied the 
king; " and the fruit of my indulgence has been to change loyal men 
into traitors. ” 

" May it please your Majesty, 1 cannot understand this," said the 
duke. 

" Follow us, my lord," answered Charles, " and we will endeavor 
to explain our meaning." 

Attended by the same lords who stood around him, and followed 
by the Duke of Buckingham, on whom all eyes were fixed, Charles 
retired into the same cabinet which had been the scene of repeated 
consultations in the course of the evening. There, leaning with his 
arms crossed on the back of an easy chair, Charles proceeded to in- 
terrogate the suspected nobleman, 

" Let us be plain with each other. Speak out, Buckingham. 
What, in one woid, was to have been the regale intended for us this 
evening?" 

"A petty mask, my lord. 1 had destined a little dancing- girl to 
pome out of that instrument, who, 1 thought, would have performecL 


432 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


to your majesty’s liking— a tew Chinese fireworks there were, which^ 
thinking the entertainment was to have taken place in the marble 
hall, might, 1 hoped, have been discharged with good effect, and 
without "^the slightest alarm, at the first appearance of my little 
sorceress, and were designed to have masked, as it were, her en- 
trance upon the stage. 1 hope there have been no perukes singed — 
no ladies frightened — no hopes of noble descent interrupted by my 
ilbfancied jest?” 

“TVe have seen no such fireworks, my lord; and your female 
dancer, of whom we now hear for the first time, came forth in the 
form of our old acquaintance Geoffrey Hudson, whose dancing days 
are surely ended. ” 

” Your majesty surprises me! I beseech you, let Christian be sent 
for — Edward Christian— he will be found lodging in a large house 
near Sharper the cutler’s, in the Strand. As 1 live by bread, sire, 1 
trusted him with the arrangement of this matter, as indeed the 
dancing-girl was his property. If he has done aught to dishonor my 
concert, or disparage my character, he shall die under the baton.” 

” It is singular,” said the hing, ” and 1 have often observed it,, that 
this fellow Christian bears the blame of all men’s enormities— he 
performs the part which, in a great family, is usually assigned to 
that mischief -doing personage. Nobody. When Chiffinch blunders, 
he always quotes Christian. When Sheffield writes ajampoon, I am 
sure to hear of Christian having corrected, or copied, or dispersed it 
— he is the ame damnee of every one about my court — the scapegoat, 
who is to carry aw'ay all their iniquities; and he will have a cruel 
load to bear into the wilderness. But for Buckingham’s sins, in 
particular, he is the regular and uniform sponsor; and 1 am con- 
vinced his grace expects Christian should suffer every penalty which 
lie has incurred, in this world or the next.” 

” Not so,” with the deepest reverence, replied the duke. ” 1 have 
no hope of being either hanged or damned by proxy; but it is clear 
some one hath tampered with and altered my device. If 1 am ac- 
cused of aught, let me at least hear the charge and see my accuser.’' 

“ That is but fair,” said the king. “ Bring our little friend from 
behind the chimney-board.” (Hudson being accordingly produced,, 
he continued :) “ There stands the Duke of Buckingham. Repeat 
before him the tale you told us. Let him hear what were those con- 
tents of the bass-viol which were removed that you might enter it. 
Be not afraid of any one, but speak the truth boldly.” 

“ May it please your majesty,” said Hudson, “ fear is a thing un- 
known to me.” 

“ His body has no room to hold such a passion; or there is too lit- 
tle of it to be wortii fearing for,” said Buckingham. “ But let Him 
speak.” 

Ere Hudson had completed his tale, Buckingham interrupted him 
by exclaiming, “Is it possible that 1 can be suspected by your 
majesty on the word of this pitiful variety of the baboon tribe?” 

” Villain lord, 1 appeal thee to the combat!” said the little man, 
highly offended at the appellation thus bestowed on him. 

” La, you there now!” said 1lie duke. “ The little animal is quite 
crazed, and defies a man who need ask no other weapon than a cork- 
ing-pin to run him through the lungs, and whose single kick could 


PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


433 


hoist him Irom Dover to Calais without yacht or wherry. And 
what can you expect from an idiot, who is engoue of a common 
rope-dancing girl, that capered on a pack-thread at Ghent in Flan- 
ders, unless they were to club their talents to set up a booth at 
Bartholomew Fair? Is it not plain, that supposing the little animal 
is not malicious, as indeed his whole kind bear a general and most 
cankered malice against those who have the ordinary proportions of 
humanity— grant, 1 say, that this were not a malicious falsehood of 
his, why, what does it amount to? That he has mistaken squibs 
and Chinese cracker's for arms! He says not he himself touched or 
handled them; and judging by the sight alone, 1 question if the in- 
firm old creature, when any whim or preconception hath possession 
of his noddle, can distinguish betwixt a blunderbuss and a black- 
pudding.” 

The horrible clamor which the dwarf made so soon as he heard 
this disparagement of his military skill — the haste with which he 
blundered out a detail of his warlike experiences— and the absurd 
grimaces which he made in order to enforce his story, provoked not' 
only the risibility of Charles, but even of the statesmen around him, 
and added absurdity to the motley complexion of the scene. The 
king terminated this dispute, by commanding the dwarf to with- 
draw. 

A more regular discussion of his evidence was then resumed, and 
Ormond was the first who pointed out, that it went further than had 
been noticed, since the little man had mentioned a certain ex- 
traordinary and treasonable conversation held by the duke’s depend- 
ents, by whom he had been conveyed to the palace. 

‘‘lam sure not to lack my Lord of Ormond’s good word,” said, 
the duke, scornfully; ‘‘ but 1 defy him alike, and all my other en- 
emies, and shall find it easy to show that this alleged conspiracy, if 
any grounds for it at all exist, is a mere sham plot, got up to turn the 
odium justly attached to the Papists upon the Protestants. Here is 
a half -hanged creature, who, on the very day he escapes from the 
gallows, which many believe was his most deserved destiny, comes 
to lake away the reputation of a Protestant peer— and, on what?— on 
the treasonable conversation of three or four German fiddlers, heard 
through the sound-holes of a violoncello, and that, too, when the 
creature w^as incased in it, and mounted on a man's shoulders! The 
urchin, too, in repeating their language, shows he understands Ger- 
man as little as my horse does; and if he did rightly hear, truly 
comprehend, and accurately report what they said, still, is my honor 
to be touched by the language held by sucli persons as these are, 
with whom I have never communicated, otherwise than men of my 
rank do with those of their .calling and capacity? Pardon me, sire, 
if 1 presume to say, that the profound statesmen who endeavored to 
stifle the Popish conspiracy ly the pretended Meal-tub Plot, will take 
little more credit by their figments about fiddles and concertos.” 

The assistant counselors looked at each other; and Charles turned 
on his heel, and walked through the room with long steps. 

At this period the Peverils, father and son, were announced to 
have reached the palace, and were ordered into the royal presence. 

These gentlemen had received the royal mandate at a moment of 
great interest. After being dismissed from their confinement by the 


434 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


«lcler Bridgenorth, in the manner and upon the terms which the 
reader must have gathered from the conversation of the latter with 
Christian, they reached the lodgings of Lady Peveril, who awaited 
them with joj', mingled with terror and uncertainty. The news of 
the acquittal had reached her by the exertions of the faithful Lance 
Oiitram, but her mind had been since harassed by the long delay of 
their appearance, and rumors of disturbances which had taken place 
in Fleet Street and in the Strand. 

When the first rapturous meeting was over, Lady Peveril, with 
an anxious look toward her son, as if recommending caution, said 
she was now about to present to him the daughter of an old friend, 
whom he had nemr (there was an emphasis on the word) seen be- 
fore, “ This young lady,” she continued, ‘‘ was the only child of 
Colonel Mitford, in North Wales, who had sent her to remain under 
her guardianship tor an interval, finding himself unequal to attempt 
the task of her education,” 

” Ay, ay," said Sir Geoffrey, ‘‘ Dick Mitford must be old now — 
beyond the threescore and ten, 1 think. He was no chicken, though 
a cock of the game, when lie joined the Marquis of Hertford at 
Namptwich with two hundred wild Welshmen. Before George, 
Julian, 1 love that girl as it she was my own flesh and blond! Lady 
Peveril would never have got through this work without her; and 
Dick Mitford sent me a thousand pieces, too, in excellent time, 
when there was scarce a cross to keep the devil from dancing in our 
pockets, much more for these law-doings. 1 used it without scruple, 
for there is wood ready to be cut at Martindale when we get down 
there, and Dick Mitford knows 1 would have done the like for him. 
Strange that he should have been the onl}’- one of my friends to re- 
flect 1 might want a few pieces.” 

Whilst Sir Geoffrey thus ran on, the meeting betwixt Alice and 
J ulian Peveril was accomplished, without, any particular notice on 
his side, except to say, “Kiss her, Julian— kiss her. What the 
devil ! is that the way you learned to accost a lady at the Isle of 
Man, as if her lips were a red-hot horse-shoe? And do not you be 
offended, my pretty one; Julian is naturally bashful, and has been 
bred by an old lady, but you will find him by and by as gallant as 
thou hast found me, my princess. And now. Dame Peveril, to din- 
ner, to dinner! — the old fox must have his belly- timber, though the 
hounds have been after him the whole day.” 

Lance, whose joyous congratulations were next to be undergone, 
had the consideration to cut them short, in order to provide a plain 
but hearty meal from the next cook’s shop, at which Julian sat like 
one enchanted, betwixt his mistress and his mother. He easily con- 
ceived that the last was the confidential friend to whom Bridgenorth 
had finally committed the charge of his daughter, and his only anx- 
iety now was, to anticipate the confusion that was likely to arise 
when her real parentage was made known to his father. Wisely, 
however, he suffered not these anticipations to interfere with the de- 
light of his present situation, in the course of which, many slight 
but delightful tokens of recognition were exchanged, without cen- 
sure. under the eye of Lady Peveril, under cover of the boisterous 
mirth of the old baronet, who spoke for two, ate for four, and drank 
-pyine for half-a-dozen. His progress in the latter exercise might 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


435 


have proceeded rather too far, had he not been interrupted by a gen- 
tleman bearing the king’s orders, that he should instantly attend 
upon the presence at Whitehall, and bring his son along with him. 

Lady Peveril was alarmed, and Alice grew pale with sympathetic 
anxiety; but the old knight, who never saw more than what lay 
straight before him, set it down to the king’s hasty anxiety to con- 
gratulate him on his escape; an interest onliis majesty’s part which 
he considered by no means extravagant, conscious that it was re- 
ciprocal on his own side. It came upon him, indeed, with the more 
joyful surprise that he had received a previous hint, ere he left the 
court of justice, that it would be prudent in him to go down to Mar- 
tindale before presenting himself at court— a restriction which he 
supposed as repugnant to his majesty’s feelings as it was to his own. 

\Vhile he consulted with Lance Outram about cleaning his buft- 
belt and sword-hilt, as well as time admitted. Lady Peveril had the 
means to give Julian more distinct information, that Alice was 
under her protection by her father’s authority, and witli his consent 
to their union, if it could be accomplished. She added, that it was 
her determination to employ therxediation of the Countess of Derby, 
to overcome the obstacles wdiich might be foreseen on the part of Sir 
Geoffrey. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

In the King’s name, 

Let fall your swords and daggers. 

Critic. 

When the father and son entered the cabinet of audience, it was 
easil}’’ visible that Sir Geoffrey had obeyed the summons as he would 
have done the trumpet’s call to horse; and his disheveled gray locks 
and half -arranged dress, though- they showed zeal and haste, such 
as he would have used when Charles I. called him to attend a coun- 
cil of war, seemed rather indecorous in a pacific drawing-room. He 
paused at the door of the cabinet, but w’hen the king called on him 
to advance, came hastily forward, with every feeling of his earlier 
and later life afloat and contending in his memory, threw himself 
on his knees before the king, seized "his hand, and, without even an 
effort to speak, wept aloud. Charles, w’-ho generally felt deeply so 
lung as an impressive object tvas before his eyes, indulged for a mo- 
ment the old man’s rapture. “ My good Sir Geoffrey,” he said, 
” you have had some hard measure; w’e owe you amends, and will 
find time to pay our debt.” 

” Xo suffering— no debt,” said the old man; “ 1 cared not wiiat 
the rogues said of me— I knew they could never get twelve honest 
fellows to believe a wmrd of their most damnable lies. 1 did long to 
beat them when they called me a traitor to your majesty— that 1 
confess— but to have such an early opportunity of paying my duty 
to your majesty, overpays it all. The villains would have persuad- 
ed me 1 ought not to come to court— aha!” 

The Duke of Ormond perceived that the king colored much; for 
in truth it was from the court that the private intimation had b^n 
given to Sir Geoffrey to go down to the country, without appearing 


436 


PETEEIL OF THE PEAK. 


at Wliiteliall ; and he, moreover, suspected that the jolly old knight 
had not risen from his dinner altogether dry-lipped, after the 
fatigues of a day so agitating. “ My old friend,” he whispered, 
” you forget that your son is to be presented — permit me to have 
that honor.” 

‘‘ 1 crave your grace’s pardon humbly,” said Sir Geoffrey, ” but 
it is an honor I design for myself, as 1 apprehend none can so 
utterly surrender and deliver him up to his majesty’s service as the 
father that begot him is entitled to do. Julian, come forward, and 
kneel. Here he is, please your majest}’’ — Julian Peveril — a chip of 
the old block — as stout, though scarce so tall a tree, as the old trunk 
when at the freshest. Take him to you, sir, for a faithful servant, 
d vendre et d pendre, as the French say; if he fears fire or steel, ax 
or gallows, in your majesty’s service, 1 renounce him — he is no son 
of mine— 1 disown him, and he may go to the Isle of J\Ian, the Isle 
of Dogs, or the Isle of Devils, for what 1 care.” 

Charles winked to Ormond, and having, with his wonted courtesy, 
expressed his thorough conviction that Julian would imitate the 
loyalty of his ancestors, and especially of his father, added, that he 
believed his Grace of Ormond had something to communicate which 
was of consequence to his service. Sir Geoffrey made his military 
reverence at this hint, and marched off in the rear of the duke, who 
proceeded to inquire of him concerning the events of the day. 
Charles, in the meanwhile, having, in the first place, ascertained 
that the son was not in the same genial condition with the father, 
demanded and received from him a precise account of all the pro- 
ceedings subsequent to the trial. 

Julian, with the plainness and precision which such a subject de- 
manded, when treated in such a presence, narrated all that had hap- 
pened, down to the entrance of Bridgenorth ; and his majesty was so 
much pleased with his manner, that" he congratulated Arlington on 
their having gained the evidence of at least one man of sense to these 
dark and mykerious events. But when Bridgenorth was brought 
upon the scene, Julian hesitated to bestow a name upon him; and 
although he mentioned the chapel which he had seen filled with men 
in arms, and the violent language of the preacher, he added, with 
earnestness, that notwithstanding all this, the men departed without 
coming to any extremity, and had left the place before his father 
and he were set at liberty. 

‘‘ And you retired quietly to your dinner in Fleet Street, young 
man,” said the king, severely, ” without giving a magistrate notice 
of the dangerous meeting which was held in the vicinity of our pal- 
ace, and who did not conceal their intention of proceeding to ex- 
tremities?” 

Peveril blushed, and was silent. The king frowned, and stepped 
aside to communicate with Ormond, who reported that the father 
seemed to have known nothing of the matter. 

” And the son, 1 am sorry to say,” said the king, ” seems more 
unwilling to speak the truth than I should have expected. We have 
all variety of evidence in this singular investigation— a mad witness 
like the dwarf, a drunken witness like the fathei, and now a dumb 
witness. Young man,” he continued, addressing Julian, ” your be- 
havior is less frank than I expected from your father’s son. 1 must 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 437 

know who this person is with whom you held sueli familiar inter- 
course— you know him, 1 presume?” 

Julian acknowledged that he did, but, kneeling on one knee, en- 
treated his majesty’s forgiveness for concealing his name; “ He had 
been freed,” he said, “ from his confinement, on promising to that 
eftect.” ' ^ 

^ ‘‘ That was a promise made, by your own account, under compul- 
sion,” answered the king, ” and } cannot authorize your keepina it; 
it is your duty to speak the truth— if you are afraid of Buckingham, 
the duke shall withdraw.” 

“ 1 have no reason to fear the Duke of Buckingham,” said Pev- 
eril; ” that 1 had an affair with one of his household, was the man’s 
own fault, and not mine.” 

” Odds-fish!” said the king, “ the light begins to break in on me 
— 1 thought 1 remembered thy physiognomy. ^Yere thou not the 
very fellow whom I met, at Chiffinch’s yonder morning? The mat- 
ter escaped me since; but now 1 recollect thou saidst then, that thou 
werl the son of that jolly old three-bottle baronet yonder.” 

‘‘It is true,” said Julian, ‘‘that 1 met your majesty at Master 
Chiffinch’s, and 1 am afraid had the misfortune to displease you; 
but—” 

“No more of that, young man — no more of that. But 1 recolleet 
you had with you that beautiful dancing siren. Buckingham, 1 
will hold you gold to silver, that she was the intended tenant of that 
bass fiddle?” 

“ Your majesty has rightly guessed it,” said the duke; “ and 1 
suspect she has put a trick upon me, by substituting the dwarf in 
her plaee; for Christian thinks—”* 

“ Damn Christian!” said the king, hastily—” 1 wish they would 
bring him hither, that universal referee.” And as the wish was ut- 
tered, Christian’s arrival was announced. “ Let him attend,” said 
the king: “But hark— a thought strikes me. Here, Master Peveril 
— yonder dancing maiden, that introduced you to us by the singular 
agility of her performance, is she not, by your account, a dependent 
on the Countess of Derby?” 

“ I have known her such for years,” answered Julian. 

“ Then will we call the countess hither.” said the king. “ It is fit 
we should learn who this little fairy really is; and if she be now so 
absolutely at the beck of Buckingham, and this Master Christian of 
his— why 1 think it would be but charity to let her ladyship know 
so much, since I question if she will wish, in that case, to retain her 
in her service. Besides,” he continued, speaking apart, “ this 
Julian, to whom suspicion attaches in these matters from his ob- 
stinate silence, is also of the countess’s household. We will sift 
this matter to the bottom, and do justice to all.” 

The Countess of Derby, hastily summoned, entered the royal 
closet at one door, just as Christian and Zaiah, or Fenella, were 
ushered in by the other. The old Knight of Martindale, who had 
ere this returned to the presence, was scarce controlled, even by the 
signs which she made, so much was he desirous of greeting his old 
friend; but as Ormond laid a kind restraining hand upon his arm, 
he was prevailed on to sit still. 

The countess after a deep reverence to the king, acknowledged 


438 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

the rest of the nobility present by a slight er reverence, smiled to J ulian 
Peveril, and looked with surprise at the unexpected apparition of 
Fenella. Buckingham bit his lip, for he saw the introduction of 
Lady Derby was likely to contuse and embroil every preparation 
which he had arranged for his defense; and he stole a glance at 
Christian, whose eye, when fixed on the countess, assumed the 
deadly sharpness which sparkles in the adder’s, while his cheek grew 
almost black under the influence of strong emotion. 

“ Is there any one in this presence whom your ladyship recog- 
nizes,” said the king, graciously, “ besides your old friends of Or- 
mond and Arlington?” 

” I see, my liege, two worthy friends of my husband’s house,” 
replied the countess; ” Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son — the latter 
a distinguished member of my son’s household.” 

” Any one else?” continued Ihe king. 

” An unfortunate female of my family, who disappeared from 
the Island of Man at the same time when Julian Peveril left it upon 
business of importance. She was thought to have fallen from the 
cliff into the sea. ’ ’ 

“ Had your ladyship any reason to suspect — pardon me,” said the 
king, ” for putting such a question — any improper intimacy between 
Master Peveril and this same female attendant?” 

“ My liege,” said the countess, coloring indignantly, “ my house- 
hold is of reputation ” 

‘‘ Nay, my lady, be not angry,” said the king; ” I did but ask — 
such things will befall in the best regulated families.” 

” Not in mine, sire,” said the countess. ‘‘ Besides that, in com- 
mon pride and in common honesty, Julian Peveril is incapable of 
intriguing with an unhappy creature, removed by her misfortune 
almost beyond the limits of humanity.” 

Zarah looked at her, and compressed her lips, as it to keep in the 
words that would tain break from them. 

”1 know not how it is,” said the king. “ What your ladyship 
says may be true in the main, yet men’s tastes have strange vaga- 
ries. This girl is lost in Man as soon as the youth leaves it, and is 
found in Saint James’s Park, bouncing and dancing like a fairy, so 
soon as he appears in London. ’ ’ 

” Impossible!” said the countess; ” she cannot dance.” 

”1 believe,” said the king, “she can do more feats than your 
ladyship either suspects or would approve of.” 

The countess drew up, and was indignantly silent. 

The king proceeded—” No sooner is Peveril in Newgate, than, by 
the account of the venerable little gentleman, this merry maiden is 
even there also for company. Now, without inquiring how she got 
in, I thinE charitably that she had better taste than to come there on 
the dwarf’s account. Ah ha! 1 think Master Julian is touched in 
conscience!” 

Julian did indeed start as the king spoke, for it reminded him of 
the midnight visit in his cell. 

The king looked fixedly at him, and then proceeded—” Well, 
gentlemen, Peveril is carried to his trial, and is no sooner at liberty, 
than we find him in the house where the Duke of Buckingham was 
arranging what he calls a musical mask. Egad, I hold it next to 


439 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

'Certain, that this wench put the change on his grace, and popt the 
poor dwarf into the bass viol, reserving her own more j)recious 
hours to be speut with Master Julian Peveril. Tliink you not so, 
Sir Christian, you, the universal referee? Is there any truth in this 
conjecture?” 

Christian stole a glance on Zarah, and read that in her eye wliich 
embarrassed him. “ He did not know,” he said; “ he had indeed 
engaged this unrivaled performance to lake the proposed part in the 
mask ; and she was to have come forth in the midst of a shower of 
lambent fire, very artificially prepared with perfumes, to overcome 
the smell of the powder; but he knew not why— excepting that she 
was willful and capricious, like all great geniuses — she had certainly 
spoiled the concert by cramming in that more bulky dwarf.” 

” 1 should like,” said the king, ” to see this little maiden stand 
forth, and bear witness, in such manner as she can express herself, 
on this mysterious matter. Can any one here understand her mode 
of communication?” 

Christian said he knew something of it since he had become ac- 
quainted with her in London, The countess spoke not till the king 
asked her, and then owned dryly, that she had necessarily some 
habitual means of intercourse with one who had been immediately 
about her person for so many years. 

‘‘ 1 should think,” said Charles, “ that this same Master Peveril 
has the more direct key to her language, after all we have heard. ' ’ 

The king looked first at Peveril, who blushed like a maiden at the 
inference which the king’s remark implied, and then suddenly 
turned his eyes on the supposed mute, on whose cheek a faint color 
was dying away. A moment afterward, at a signal from the count- 
ess, Fenella, or Zarah, stepped forward, and having kissed her lady’s 
hand, stood with her arms folded on her breast, with a humble air, 
as different from that which she wore in the harem of the Duke of 
Buckingham as that of a Magdalene from a Judith. Yet this was 
the least show of her talent of versatility, for so well did she play 
the part of the dumb girl, that Buckingham, sharp as his discern- 
ment was, remained undecided whether the creature which stood 
before him could possibly be the same with her, who had, in a dif- 
ferent dress, made such an impression on his imagination, or indeed 
was the imperfect creature she now represented. She had at once 
all that could mark the imperiection of hearing, and all that could 
show the wonderful address by which nature so often makes up for 
the deficiency. There was the lip that trembled not at any sound — 
the seeming insensibility to the conversation that passed around; 
while, on the other hand, was the quick and vivid glance that 
seemed anxious to devour the meaning of those sounds which she 
could gather no otherwise than by the motion of the lips. 

Examined after her own fashion, Zarah confirmed the tale of 
Christian in ail its points, and admitted that she had deranged the 
project laid for a mask, by placing the dwarf in her own stead; the 
cause of her doing so she declined to assign, and the countess pressed 
her no further. 

‘‘ Every thing tells to exculpate my Lord of Buckingham,” said 
Charles, ” from so absurd an accusation: the dwarf’s testimony is 
too fantastic, that of the two Peverils does not in the least affect the 


440 


PXVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


duke; that of the dumb damsel completely contradicts the possibility 
of his guilt. Methinks, my lords, we should acquaint him that he 
stands acquitted of a complaint too ridiculous to have been subject- 
ed to a more serious scrutiny than we have hastily made upon this 
occasion.” 

Arlington bowed in acquiescence, but Ormond spoke plainly : ‘ ‘ I 
should suffer, sire, in the opinion of the Duke of Buckingham, brill- 
iant as his talents are known to be, should 1 say that 1 am satisfied 
in my own mind on this occasion. But 1 subscribe to the spirit of 
the times; and 1 agree it would be highly dangerous, on such ac- 
cusations as we have been able to collect, to impeach the character 
of a zealous Protestant like his grace. Had he been a Catholic, 
under such circumstances of suspicion, the Tower had been too good 
a prison for him,” 

Buckingham bowed to the Duke of Ormond with a meaning 
which even his triumph could not disguise. “ Tu me la pcigherai,'* 
he muttered in a tone of deep and abiding resentment; but the stout 
old Irishman, who had long since braved his utmost wrath, cared 
little for this expression of his displeasure. 

The king then, signing to the other nobles to pass into the public 
apartments, stopped Buckingham as he was about to follow them; 
and when they were alone, asked, with' a significant tone, which 
brought all the blood in the duke’s veins into his countenance, 
“ When was it, George, that your useful friend Colonel Blood be- 
came a musician? You are "silent,” he said; ‘‘do not deny the 
charge, for yonder villain, once seen, is remembered for ever, 
Down, down on you knees, George, and acknowledge that you have 
abused my easy temper. Seek for no apology — none will serve your 
turn. 1 saw the man myself among your Germans, as you" call 
them; and you know whatl must needs believe from such a circum- 
stance.” 

‘‘Believe that 1 have been guilty — most guilty, my liege and 
king,” said the duke, conscience-struck, and kneeling down; — ‘‘ be- 
lieve that I was misguided— that 1 was mad —believe any thing but 
that 1 was capable of harming, or being accessory to harm, your 
person.” — 

‘‘ 1 do not believe it,” said the king; ‘‘ 1 think of you, Villiers, 
as the companion of my dangers and my exile, and am so far from 
supposing you mean worse than you sjiy, that 1 am convinced you 
acknowledge more than ever you meant to attempt.” 

‘‘ By all that is sacred,” said the duke, still kneeling, “ had 1 not 
been involved to the extent of life and fortune with the villain 
Christian — ” 

‘‘ Nay, if you bring Christian on the stage again,” said the king, 
smiling, ‘‘it is time for me to withdraw. Come, Y’illiers, rise — I 
forgive thee, and only recommend one act of penance — the curse 
you yourself bestowed on the dog who bit you — marriage, and retire- 
ment to your country-seat.” 

The duke rose abashed, and followed the king into the circle, 
which Charles entered, leaning on the shoulder of his repentant peer; 
to whom he showed so much countenance as led the most acute ob- 
servers present to doubt the possibility of there existing any real 
cause for the surmises to the duke’s prejudice. 


PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


441 

The Countess of Derby had in the meanwhile consulted with the 
Duke of Ormond, with the Peverils, and with her other friends; 
and, by their unanimous advice, though with considerable difliculty, 
became satisfied, that to have thus sliown herself at court was suiii- 
cient to vindicate the honor of her house; and that it was her wisest 
course, after having done so, to retire to her insular dominions 
without further provoking the resentment of a powerful faction. 
She took farewell of the king in form, and demanded his permission 
to carry back with her the helpless creature who had so strangely 
escaped from her protection into a world where her condition ren- 
dered her so subject to every species of misfortune. 

“ Will your ladyship forgive me?” said Charles, “ 1 have studied 
your sex long — 1 am mistaken if your little maiden is not as capable 
of caring for herself as any of us.” 

” Impossible!” said the countess. 

” Possible, and most true,” whispered the king. ” 1 will instant- 
ly convince you of the fact, though the experiment is too delicate to 
be made by any but your ladyship. Yonder she stands, looking as 
if she heard no more than the marble pillar against which she leans. 
Kow, it Lady Derby will contrive either to place her hand near the 
region of the damsel’s heart, or at least on her arm, so that she can 
feel the sensation of the blood when the blood increases, then do 
you, my Lord of Ormond, beckon Julian Peveril out of sight— 1 
will show you in a moment that it can stir at sounds spoken.” 

The countess, much surprised, afraid of some embarrassing pleas- 
antry on the part of Charles, jet unable to repress her curiosity, 
placed herself near Fenella, as she called her little mute; and, while 
making signs to her, contrived to place her hand on her wrist. 

At this moment the king, passing near them, said, ” This is a hor- 
rid deed— the villain Christian has stabbed young Peveril!” 

The mute evidence of the pulse, which bounded. as if a cannon 
had been discharged close by the poor girl’s ear, was accompanied 
by such a loud scream of agony, as distressed, while it startled the 
good-natured monarch himself. “ I did but jest,” he said; “ Julian 
is well-, my pretty maiden. 1 only used the wand of a certain blind 
deity, called Cupid, to bring a deaf and dumb vassal of his to the 
exercise of her faculties.”* 

” I am betrayed!” she said, with her eyes fixed on the ground. 

1 am betrayed! and it is fit that she, whose life has been spent in 
practicing treason on others, should be caught in her own snare. 
But where is my tutor in iniquity? Where is Christian, who taught 
me to play the part of spy on this unsuspicious lady until 1 had 
well-nigh delivered her into his bloody hands?” 

“This,” said the king, “craves mote seciet examination. Let 
all leave the apartment who are not immediately connected with 
these proceedings, and let this Christian be again brought before us. 
Wretched man,” he continued, addressing Christian, “ wdi at wiles 
are these you have practiced, and by what extraordinary means?” 

“ She has betrayed me, then!” said Christian. ” Betrayed me to 
bonds and death, merely for an idle passion, wdiich can never be 
successful! But know, Zarah,” he added, addressing her sternly, 

* See Note H B..— Deaf and Dumb Vassals. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


442 

“ wlien my life is forfeited through thy evidence, the daughter has 
murdered the father!” 

The unfortunate girl stared on him in astonishment. “ You 
said,” at length she stammered forth, “ that I was the daughter of 
your slaughtered brother?’' 

” Tliat was partly to reconcile thee to the part thou wert to play 
in mj destined drama of vengeance — partly to hide what men call 
the infamy of thy birth. But my daughter thou art! and from the 
eastern clime, in which thy mother was born, you derive that fierce 
torrent of passion which 1 labored to train to my purposes, but 
which, turned into another channel, has become the cause of your 
father’s destruction — my destiny is the Tower, 1 suppose?” 

He spoke these words with great composure, and scarce seemed to 
regard the agonies of his daughter, who, throwing hemelf at his 
feet, sobbed and wept most bitterly. 

” This must not be,” said tho king, moved with compassion at 
this scene of misery. “ If you conseLt, Christian, to leave this 
country, there is a vessel in the river bound for Hew England. Go, 
carry your dark intrigues to other lands.” 

” 1 might dispute the sentence,” said Christian, boldly; ” and if 
I submit to it, it is a matter of my own choice. One half hour had 
made me even with that proud woman, but fortune hath cast the 
balance against me. Bise, Zarah, Fenella no more! Tell the Lady 
of Derby, that if the daughter of Edward Christian, the niece of her 
murdered victim, served her as a menial, it was but for the purpose 
of vengeance — miserably, miserably frustrated! Thou seest thy 
folly now — thou wouldst follow yonder ungrateful stripling — thou 
wouldst forsake all other thoughts to gain his slightest notice; and 
now, thou art a forlorn outcast, ridiculed and insulted by those on 
whose necks you might have trod had you governed yourself with 
more wisdom! But come, thou art still my daughter — there are other 
skies than that which canopies Britain.” 

” Stop him,” said the king; “ we must know by what means this 
maiden found access to those confined in our prisons.” 

“ 1 refer your majesty to your most Protestant jailer, and to the 
most Protestant Peers, who, in order to obtain perfect knowledge of 
the depth of the Popish Plot, have contrived these ingenious aper- 
tures for visiting them in their cells by night or day. His Grace of 
Buckingham can assist your majesty, it you are inclined to make 
the inquiry.”* 

” Christian,” said the duke, thou art the most barefaced villain 
who ever breathed. ’ ’ 

“Of a commoner, 1 may,” answered Christian, and led his 
daughter out of the presence. 

“ See after him, Selby,” said the king; “ lose not sight of him 
till the ship sail; it he dare return to Britain, it shall be at his peril. 
Would to God we had as good riddance of others as dangerous I 
And 1 would also,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “ that all 
our political intrigues and feverish alarms could terminate as harm- 
lessly as now. Here is a plot without a drop of blood; and all the 

* It was said that very unfair means were used to compel the prisoners, 
committed on account of the Popish Plot, to make disclosures, and that sev- 
eral of them were privately put to the torture. 


PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


443 


elements of a romance, without its conclusion. Here we have a 
wandering island princess (1 pray my Lady of Derby’s pardon), a 
dwarf, a Moorish sorceress, an impenitent rogue, and a repentant 
man of rank, and yet all ends without either hanging or marriage.” 

“ Not altogether without the latter,” said the countess, who had 
an opportunity, during the evening, of nnich private conversation 
with J uliah Peveril. ‘ ‘ There is a certain Major Bridgenorth, who, 
since your majesty relinquishes further inquiry into these proceed- 
ings, which he had otherwise intended to abide, designs, as we are 
informed, to leave England for ever. Now, this Bridgenorth, by 
dint of the law, hath acquired strongpossession over the domains of 
Peveril, which he is desirous to restore to the ancient owners, with 
much fair land besides, conditionally, that our young J ulian will re- 
ceive them as the dowry of his only child and heir.” 

“By my faith,” said the king, “she must be afoul-favored 
wench, indeed, if Julian requires to be pr(3ssedto accept her on such 
fair conditions.” 

“ They love each other like lovers of the last age,” said the count- 
ess; “ but the stout old knight likes not the roundheaded alliance.” 

“Our royal recommendation shall put that to rights, ” said the 
king; “ Sir Geoffrey Peveril has not suffered hardship so often at 
our command, that he will refuse our recommendation when it 
comes to make him amends for all his losses.” 

It may be supposed the king did not speak without being fully 
aware of the unlimited ascendency which he possessed over the spirit 
of the old Tory: for,, within four weeks afterward, the bells of Mar- 
tindale-Moultrassie were ringing for the union of the families, from 
whose estates it takes its compound name, and the beacon-light of 
the castle blazed high over hill and dale, and summoned all to re- 
joice who were within twenty miles of its gleam.* 

* See Note 1 1.— History of Colonel Thomas Blood. 


END OP PEVERIL OP THE PEAK. 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


Note A.— Cavaliers and Roundheads. 

The attempt to contrast the manners of the jovial Cavaliers, and enthusiastic, 
yet firm and courageous, Puritans, was partly taken from a hint of Shadweil, 
who sketched several scenes of humor with great force, although they hung 
heavy on his pencil when he attempted to finish them for the stage. 

In a dull play named the Volunteers, or the Stock-jobbers, the dramatis pei'- 
sonce present “ Major-General Blunt, an old cavalier officer, somewhat rough 
in speech, but very brave and honest, and of good understanding and a good 
patriot.” A contrast to the General is “ Colonel Hackwell senior, an old Ana- 
baptist Colonel of Cromwell’s, very stout and godly, but somewhat immoral.” 

These worthies, so characterized, hold a dialogue together, which will form 
a good example of Shadwell’s power of dramatizing. The stage is filled by 
Major-General Blunt, and some of his old acquaintance cavaliers, and Hack- 
well, the ancient parliamentarian. 

“ Major-General Blunt. Fear not, my old cavaliers. According to your 
laudable customs, .you shall be drunk, swagger, and fight over all your battles, 
frbm Edgehill to Brentford. You have not forgotten how this gentleman 
(points to Colonel Hackivell) and his demure psalm-singing fellows used to drub 
us? 

” 1st Cavalier. No, ’gad ! I felt ’em once to purpose. 

“ M.-G. Blunt. Ah ! a-dod, in high-crowned hats, collared bands, great loose 
coats, long tucks under ’em, and calves-leather boots, they used to sing a 
psalm, fall on, and beat us to the devil 1 

” Hackwell, senior. In that day we stood up to the cause; and the cause, the 
spiritual cause, did not suffer under our carnal weapons, but the enemy was 
discomfited, and lo ! they used to flee before us. 

“1st Cavalier. Who Avould think such a sniveling, psalm-singing puppy 
would fight? But these godly fellows would lay about them as if the devil 
were in ’em. 

“ Bir Nicholas. What a filthy slovenly army was this ! I warrant you not a 
well-dressed man among the Roundheads. 

“ M.-G. Blunt. But these plain fellows would so thrash your swearing, 
drinking, fine fellows in laced coats— just such as you of the drawing-i*oom and 
Locket’s fellows are now— and so strip them, by the Lord Harry, that aHer a 
battle those saints looked like the Israelites loaden with the Egyptian baggage. 

“ Hackioell. Verily, we did take the spoil ; and it served us to turn the penny, 
and advanced the cause thereby ; we fought upon a principle that carried us 
through. 

“ M.-G. Blunt. Prithee, Colonel, we know thy principle — ’twas not right; 
thou foughtest against children’s baptism, and not for liberty, but who should 
be your tyrant; none so zealous for Cromwell as thou wert then, nor such a 
furious agitator and test-man as thou hast been lately. 

“ Hackwell, senior. Look you. Colonel, we but proceeded in the way of 
liberty of worship. 

“ M.-G. Blunt. A-dod, there is something more in it. This was thy princi- 
jrfe. Colonel— X>ontMUoa is founded in grace, and the righteous shall inherit the 
earth. And, by the Lord Harry, thou didst so; thou gottest three thousand 
pound a-year by fighting against the Court, and I lost a thousand by fighting’ 
for it.”— See The Volunteers, or Stock-Jobbers, Shadwbll’s iroj-fcs, vol. iv. p. 
437. 

In a former scene, Hackwell, the old fanatic officer, conceiving himself 
offended by one of the dramatis personce, says, with great naivete — “ I 
prithee, friend, put me not to use the carnal weapon in my own defense.” 
Such are the traits of phraseology with which Shadweil painted the old Puritan 
officers, many of whom he— no mean observer of human nature- must have 
known familiarly. 

Note B. — Concealment of the Countess of Derby. 

The concealment and discovery of the Countess of Derby is taken from a 
picturesque account of a similar event, described to me by tlie person by whom 

( 444 ) 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK 


445 

it was witnessed in childhood. This lady, by name Mrs. Marg’aret Swiuton, 
and a daughter of that ancient house, was a sister of my maternal grandmoth- 
er. and of course my grandaunt. She was, as often happens on such occasions, 
our constant resource in sickness, or when we tired of noisy play, and closed 
around her to listen to her tales. As she might be supposed to look back to the 
beginning of the last century, the fund which supplied us with amusement 
often related to events of the period. I may here notice that she told me the 
unhappy story of the Bride of Lammermoor, being nearly related to the Lord / 
President, whose daughter was the heroine of that melancholy tragedy. 

The present tale, though of a different character, was also sufficiently striking, 
Avhen told by an eye-witness. Aunt Margaret was, I suppose, seven or eight 
years old, when residing in the old mansion-house of Swiuton, and already dis- 
played the firmness and sag^ity which distinguished her through life. Being 
one of a large family, she \ras, owing to slight indisposition, left at home one. 
day when the rest of the family went to church, with Sir John and Lady Swin- 
ton, their parents. Before leaving the little invalid, she was strictly enjoined 
not to go into the parlor where the elder party had breakfasted. But when she 
found herself alone in the upper part of the house, the spirit of her great an- 
cestress Eve took possession of m 3 ' Aunt Margaret, and forth she went to ex- 
amine the parlor in question. She was struck with admiration and fear at 
what she saw there. A lady “ beautiful exceedingly,” was seated by the break- 
fast table, and employed in washing the dishes which had been used. Little 
Margaret w'ould have had no doubt in accounting this singular vision an ema- 
nation from the angelical w'orld, but for her employment, which she could not 
so easily reconcile to her ideas of angels. 

The lady, w’ith great presence of mind, called the astonished child to her, 
fondled her with much tenderness, and judiciously avoiding to render the 
necessity of secrecy too severe, she told the girl she must not let any one ex- 
cept her mother know' that she had seen her. Having allowed this escape- 
valve for the benefit of her curiosity, the mysterious stranger desired the little 
girl to look from the w'indow of the parlor to see if her mother was returning 
from church. When she turned her head again, this fair vision had vanished, 
but by what means Miss Margaret was unable to form a conjecture. 

Long watched, and eagerly waited for, the Lady Swinton at last returned 
from church, and her daughter lost no time in telling her extraordinary tale. 

“ You are a very sensible girl, Pegg}',” answ'ered her mother, “ for if you had 
spoken of that poor lady to any one but me, it might have cost her her life. 
But now' I will not be afraid of trusting you w'ith any secret, and I will show 
you wiier&-fEie poor lad 3 ' lives.” In fact, she introduced her to a concealed 
apartment opening by a sliding panel from the parlor, and showed her the 
lady in the hiding place, which she inhabited. It may be said, in passing, that 
there w'ere few Scottish houses belonging to families of rank which had not 
such contrivances, the political incidents of the times often calling them into 
occupation. 

The history of the lady of the closet was both melancholy and bloody, and 
though I have seen various accounts of the story, I do not pretend to distin-' 
guish the right edition. She w'as a 3 ’oung woman of extreme beaut}', who had 
been married to an old man, a writer, named MacFarlane. Her situation, and 
perhaps her manners, gh,ve courage to some w'ho desired to b%,acootmted her 
suitors. Among them was a young Englishman, named Cayley, who was a 
commis-sioner of Government upon the estates forfeited in the Rebellion of 
1715. In 1716, Mr. Cayley visited this lady in her lodgings, w'hen they quar- 
reled, either on account of his having offered her some violence, or, as an- 
other account said, because she reproached him w'ith having boasted of former 
favors. It ended on her seizing upon a pair of pistols, W'hich la}’ loaded in n. 
closet, her husband intending to take them with him on a journey. The gal- 
lant commissioner approached with an air of drollery, saying, “ What, iuadam, 
do you intend to perform a comedy?”— “ You shall find it a tragedy,” an- 
swered the lady; and fired both pistols, by which Commissioner Cayley fell 
dead. 

She fled, and remained concealed for a certain time. Her claim of refuge in 
Sw’inton House, I do not know— it arose probably from some of the indescriba- 
ble genealogical filaments w'hich connect Scottish families. A very small 
cause would even at any time have been a reason for interfering between an 
individual and the law. 

Whatever were the circumstances of Mrs. MacFarlane’s case, it is certain 
that she returned, and lived and died in Edinburgh, without being brouglit to 
trial. Indeed, considering the times, there was no great wonder; for, to one 
strong party, the death of an English commissioner was not a circumstance to 


446 


KOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

require much apology. The Svvintons, however, could not be of that opinion, 
the family being of Presbyterian and Whig principles. 

Note C.— Trial and Execution of Christian. 

The reader will find, in an Appendix to the Introduction, an account of this 
tragedy, as related by one who may be said to favor the sufferer. It must be 
\ admitted, on the other hand, that Captain Christian’s trial and execution were 
'^jonducted according to the laws of the island. He was tried in all due form, 
by the Dempster, or chief judge, then named Norris, the Keys of the island, 
and other constituted authorities, making what is called aTinwald court. This 
word, yet retained in many parts of Scotland, signifies Vallis Negotii, and is 
applied to those artificial mounds which were in ^cient times assigned to the 
meeting of the inhabitants for holding their Comxua. It was pleaded that the 
articles of accusation against Christian were found fully relevant, and as he 
refused to plead at the bar, that he was, according to the Laws of Man, most 
justly sentenced to death. It was also stated, that full time was left for appeal 
to England, as he was apprehended about the end of September, and not exe- 
cuted until the 2d January, 1662. These defenses were made for the various 
officers of the Isle of Man, called before the Privy Council, on account of 
Cnristian’s death, and supported with many quotations from the Laws of the 
Island, and appear to have been received as a sufficient defense for their share 
in those proceedings. 

I am obliged to the present reverend Vicar of Malew, for a certified extract 
to the following effect:— “ Malew Burials, a.d. 1662. Mr. William Christian of 
Ronalds-wing, late receiver, was shot to death at Hange Hall, the 2d January. 
He died most penitently and courageously, made a good end, prayed earnest- 
ly, made an excellent speech, and the next day was buried in the chancel of 
Kirk Malew.” 

It is certain that the death of William Christian made a very deep impres- 
sion upon the minds of the islanders, and a Mr. Calcell or Colquit was much 
blamed on the occasion. Two lesser incidents ai’e worth preservation as oc- 
curring at his execution. The place on which he stood was covered with white 
blankets, that his blood might not fall on the ground ; and, secondly, the pre- 
caution proved unnecessary, for, the musket wounds bleeding internally, there 
. was no outward effusion of blood. 

Many on the island deny Christian’s guilt altogether, like his respectable de- 
scendant, the present Dempster ; but there are others, and thosejnen of judg- 
ment and respectability, who are so far of a different opinion, tlTais they only 
allow the execution to have been wrong in so far as the culprit died by a 
military rather than a civil death. I willingly drop the veil over a transaction, 
which took Tg\Kce flagrant ibus odiis at the conclusion of a civil wai’, when Re- 
venge at least was awake if Justice slept. 

Note D.— Pages. 

Even down to a later period than that in which the tale is laid, the ladies of 
distinction had for their pages young gentlemen of distinguished rank, whose 
education proceeded within the family of their patroness. Anne, Duchess of 
Buccleuch aud Monmouth, who in several respects laid claim to the honor 
due to royal blood, was, I believe, the last person of rank who kept up this old 
custom. A general officer distinguished in the American war was bi*ed up as 
a page in her family. At present, the youths whom we sometimes see in the 
capacity of pages of great ladies, are, I believe, mere lackeys. 

Note E.— Presbyterian Clergy. 

The ejection of the Presbyterian clergy took place on Saint Bartholomew’s 
day, thence called Black Bartholomew. Two thousand Presbyterian 
pastors Avere on that day displaced and silenced throughout England. The 
preachers indeed had only the alternative to renounce their principles, or sub- 
scribe certain articles of uniformity. And to their great honor, Calamy, Bax- 
ter, aud Reynolds I’efused bishopricks, and many other Presbyterian ministers 
declined deaneries and other preferments, and submitted to deprivation in 
preference. 

Note F.— Persecution op the Puritans. 

It is naturally to be supposed, that the twenty years’ triumph of the Puri- 
tans, and the violence toward the malignants, as they were wont to call the 
Cavaliers, had generated many grudges and feuds in almost every neighbor- 
hood, Avhich the victorious royalists failed not to act upon, so soon as the Res- 


NOTES TO PETERIL OF THE PEAK. 


44 ? 

toration gave them a superiority. Captain Hodgson, a parliamentary officer 
who wrote liis own memoirs, gives us many instances of this, I shall some- 
what compress his long-winded account of his sufferings 

“ It was after the King’s return to London, one night a parcel of armed men 
comes to my house at Cballey Hall, near Halifax, and in an unseasonable hour 
in the night demands entrance, and my servants having some discourse with 
them on the outside, they gave threatening language, and put their pistols in 
at the windows. My wife being with child, I ordered the doors to be 
opened, and they came in. After they had presented a pistol to my breast, 
tnej' showed me their authority to apprehend me, under the hands and seals 
of two knights and deputy-lieutenants, ‘ for speaking treasonable words 
against the King.’ ” The ci-devant captain was conveyed to prison at Brad- 
ford, and bail refused. His prosecutor proved to be one Daniel Lyster, brother 
to the peace-officer who headed the troop for his apprehension. It seems that 
the prisoner Hodgson had once in former days bound over to his good behav- 
ior this Daniel Lyster, then accused of adultery and of other debauched habits. 

“ After the King came in,” says Hodgson, ” this man meets me, and demands 
the names of those that informed against him, and a copy of their information. 

I told him that the business was over, and that it was not reasonable to rip up 
old troubles, on which he threatened me, and said he would have them. ‘ The 
sun,’ he said, ‘ now shines on our side of the hedge,’ ” Such being his accuser, 
Hodgson was tried for having said, ” There is a crown provided, but the King 
will never wear it;” to wdiich was added, that he alleged he had “ never been 
a turncoat, — never took the oath of allegiance, and never would do.” Little 
or no part of the charge was pi’oved, while, on the contrary, it was shown, 
that the prosecutor had been heard to say, that if times ever changed, he 
would sit on Hodgson’s skirts. In fine, Hodgson e.scaped for five months’ im- 
prisonment, about thirty pounds’ expenses, and the necessity of swallowing 
the oath of allegiance, which seems to have been a bitter pill. 

About the middle of June, 1662, Captain Hodgson was again an’ested in a 
summary manner by one Peebles, an attorney, quarter-master to Sir John 
Armytage’s troop of horse-militia, with about twelve other Cavaliers, who 
used him rudely, called him rebel and traitor, and seemed to wish to pick a 
quarrel with him, upon which he demanded to see their authority. Peebles 
laid his hand on his sword, and told him it was better authority than anj^ ever 
granted by Cromwell. They suffered him, however, to depart, wdiich he partly 
ow'ed to the valor of his landlad)’-, who sat dowm at the table-end betwixt him 
and danger, and kept his antagonist at some distance. 

He was afterward accused of having assembled some troopers, from his 
having been accidentally seen riding wdth a soldier, from which accusation he 
also escaped. Finally, he fell under suspicion of being concerned in a plot, of 
which the scene is called Sowerby. On this charge he is not explicit, but the 
grand jury found the bill ignoramus. 

After this the poor Roundhead w'as again repeatedly accused and arrested ; 
and the last occasion w'e shall notice occurred on 11th September, 1662, when 
he was disarmed by his old friend Mr. Peebles, at the head of a party. He de- 
manded to see the warrant; on which he w'as answered as formerly by the 
quarter-master laying his hand on his swmrd hilt, saying it w'as a better order 
tnan Oliver used to give. At length a w^arrant w'as produced, and Hodgson 
submitting to the search, they took from his dwelling-house better than L.20 
value in fowling-pieces, pistols, muskets, carbines, and such like. A quarrel 
ensued about his buff-coat, which Hodgson refused to deliver, alleging they 
had no authority to take his wearing apparel. To this he remained constant, 
even upon the personal threats of Sir John Armytage, who called him rebel 
and traitor, and said, ” if I did not send the buff-coat wdth all speed, he would 
commit me to jail. I told him,” says Hodg.sou, ” I was no rebel, and he did 
not well to call me so before these soldiers and gentlemen, to make me the 
mark for every one to shoot at.” The buff-coat was then peremptorily d<i- , 
manded, and at length seized by open force. One of Sir John Armytage’s 
brethren wore it for many j^ears after, making good Prince Henry’s observa- 
tion, that a buff jerkin is a most sweet robe of durance. An agent of Sir John's 
came to compound for this garment of proof. Hodgson says he w'ould not 
have taken ten pounds for it. Sir John would have given about four, but in- 
sisting on the ow'ner’s receipt for the money, which its former possessor was 
imwdlling to grant, the tory magistrate kept both sides, and Hodgson never 
received satisfaction. 

We w ill not prosecute Mr. Hodgson’s tale of petty grievances any further. 
Enough has been said to displa}' the' melancholy picture of the country after 
the civil war, and to show the state of irritability and oppression which must 


448 


KOTES TO PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK. 


have extended itself over the face of Enojland, since there vas scarcely a 
county in which battles had not been fought, and deep injuries sustained, dur- 
ing the ascendency of the roundheads, which were not afterward retaliated by 
the vengeance of the cavaliers. 

Note G.— Popular Pastimes in the Isle of Man. 

Waldron mentions the two popular festivities in the Isle of Man which are 
alluded to in the text, and vestiges of them are, I believe, still to be traced in 
this singular island. The Contest of Winter and Summer seems directly de- 
rived from the Scandinavians, long the masters in Man, as Olaus Magnus men- 
tions a similar festival among the northern nations. On the first of May', he 
says, “the country is divided into two bands, the captain of one of which hath 
the name and appearance of Winter, is clothed in skins of beasts, and he and 
his band armed with fire forks. They fling about ashes, by way of prolonging 
the reign of Winter; while another band, whose captain is called Florro, rep- 
resents Spring, with green bough’s, such as the season offers. These parties 
skirmish in sport, and the , mimic contest concludes with a general feast.” — 
History, of the Northern Nations by Olaus, book xv, chap. 2. 

Waldron gives an account of a festival in Wales, exactly similar: 

“ In almost all the great parishes, they choose from among the daughters 
•of the most wealthy farmers, a young maid, for the Queen of May. She is 
drest in the gayest and best manner tliey’^ can, and is attended by about twenty 
others, who are called maids of honor. She has also a y'oung man, who is her 
captain, and has under his command a good number of inferior officers. In 
opposition to her, is the Queen of Winter, who is a man dressed in woman’s 
clothes, with woollen hoods, fur tippets, and loaded with the warmest and 
heaviest habits, one upon another: in the same manner are those, who repre- 
sent her attendants, drest; nor is she without a captain and troop for her de- 
fense. Both being equipt as proper emblems of the beauty of the spring, and 
the deformity of the winter, they set forth from their respective quarters, the 
one preceded by’^ violins and flutes, the other with the rough music of the 
tongs and cleavers. Both companies march till they meet on a common, and 
then their trains engage in a mock battle. If the Queen of Winter’s foi’cesget 
the better, so far as to take the Queen of May' prisoner, she is ransomed for as 
much as pays the expenses of the day'. After this ceremony'. Winter and her 
company retire, and divert themselves in a barn, and the others remain on the 
green, wdiere having danced a considei able time, they' conclude the evening 
with a feast; the queen at one table with her maids, the captain with his troop 
at another. There are seldom less than fifty' or sixty persons at each board, 
but not more than three or four knives. Christmas is ushered in with a form 
much less meaning, and more infinitely fatiguing. On the 24th of December, 
toward evening, all the servants in general have a holiday; they go not to bed 
all night, but ramble about till the bells ring in all the churches, wliich is at 
twelve o’clock ; prayers being over, they' go to hunt the wren, and after having 
found one of these poor birds, they kill her, and lay' her on a bier with the ut- 
most solemnity, bringing her to the parish church, and buiying her with a 
whimsical kind of solemnity, singing dirges over her in the Manx language, 
which they call her knell ; after which Christmas begins. There is not a barn 
unoccupied the whole twelve day's, every parish hiring fiddlers at the public 
charge; and all the y'outh, nay, sometimes people well advanced in years, 
making no scruple to be among these nocturnal dancers.— Waldron's De- 
scription of the Isle of Man, folio, 1731. 

With regard to horse-racing in the Isle of Man, I am furnished with a cer- 
tified copy of the rules on which that sport was conducted, under the per- 
mission of the Earl of Derby', in -which the curious may' see that a descendant 
of the unfortunate Christian entered a horse for the prize. I am indebted for 
this curiosity to my kind friend the learned Dr. Dibdin. 

Insula I Articles for the plate which is to he rxin for in the said island, 
Mon^ J being of the value of five pounds sterling, {the fashion in- 
cluded), given by the Right Honorable William Earl of Derby, 
Lord of the said Isle, dtc. 

“ 1st. The said plate is to be run for on the 28th day' of July, in euery year, 
whiles his honor is pleased to allow the same (being the day of the nativity 
of the Honorable James Lord Strange), except it happen upon a Sunday, 
and if soe the said plate is to be run for upon the day following. 

‘^‘2(i. That noe horse, gelding, or mail-, shall be admitted to run for the said 
plate, but such as was foaled within the said island, or in the Calfe of 
Mann. 


NOTES TO PEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


449 


Zd. That euery horse, gelding or mair, that is designed to run, shall be entred 
at or before the viiijth day of July, with his masters uanie and his owne, if 
he be generally knowne by any, or els his collour, and whether horse, 
mair, or gelding, and that to be done at the x comprs.' office, by the dearie 
of the rolls for the time being. 

“ Ath. That euery {person that puts in either horse, mair, or gelding, shall, at 
the time of their entring, depositt the sume of fine shill, apiece into the 
hands of the said cleark of the rolls, which is to goe towards the atigmeiit- 
ing of the plate for the year following, besides one shill, apiece to be giuen 
by them to the said cleark of the rolls, for entring their names and en- 
grossing these articles. 

“ 5f/i. That euery horse, mair, or gelding, shall carry horseman’s weight, that 
is to say, ten stone weight, at fourteen pounds to each stone, besides sadle 
and bridle. 

That eueiy horse, mair, or gelding, shall haue a person for its tryer, to 
be named by the owner of the said horse, mair, or gelding, which tryers 
are to have the command of the scales and weights, and to see that eiiery 
* rider doe carry full weight, according as is mencioned in the foregoeing 
article, and especially that the wining rider be soe with the usuall allow- 
ance of one pound for . 

“ 'Ith. That a person be assigned by the tryers to start the rnninge horses, who 
are to be run for the said plate, betwixt the howers of one and three of the 
clock in the afternoon. 

“ %th. That euery rider shall leave the two first powles which are sett upp in 
Macybreas close, in this maner following, that is to say, the first of the said 
two powles upon his right hand, and the other upon his left hand ; and the 
two powles by the rockes are to be left upon the left hand likewise ; and 
the fifth powle, which is set up at the lower end of the Conne 3 ^-warren, to 
be left alsoe upon the left hand, and soe the turning powle next to VVm, 
Looreyes house to be left in like maner upon the leH hand, and the other 
two powles, leading to the ending powle, to be left upon the right hand; 
all w'hich powles are to be left by the riders as aforesaid, excepting only 
the distance-powle, which may be rid on either band, at the discretion of 
the rider,” &c., &c., &c. 

“ July Uth, 1687. 

“ The names of the persons who have entered their horses to run for the w'ithin 
plate for the present year; 1087 

“ Ro. Heywood, Esq., Governor of this Isle, hath entered ane bay- 
gelding, called by the name of Loggerhead, and hath depositted 


towards the augmenting of the plate for the next year, L.OO 05 00 

“ Captain Tho. Hudlston hath entred one white gelding, called 
Snowball, and hath depositted, , 00 05 00 

“ Mr, William Faigler hath entred his gray gelding, called the 
Gray-Carraine, and depositted, 00 05 00 

“ Mr. ‘Nicho. Williams hath entred one gray stone horse called 
the Yorkshire gray, and depositted, 00 05 00 

“ Mr. Demster Christian hath entred one gelding, called the Dap- 
ple-gray, and hath depositted, 00 05 00 


“ Memorandum, “ 28f/t July, 1G87. 

“ That this day the above plate was run for by the foremencioned horses, 
and the same was fairly won by the right worshipful governor’s horse at the 
two first heates. 


“ Received this day the above 
ter to augment y® plate by me, 


” mh August, 1688. 

, which I am to pay to my mas- 
JoHN Wood. 


“ It is my good-will and pleasure y‘ y® 2 prizes formerly granted (by me) for 
hors riming and shouting, shall continue as they did, to be run, or shot for, 
and soe to continue dureiug my good-will and pleasure. Given under my 
hand att Lathom, y® 12 of July, 1669. Derby. 

“ To my governor’s deputy-governor, and y® 
rest of my officers in my Isle of Man.” 


Note II.— Portrait op William Christian. 

I am told that a portrait of the unfortunate William Christian is still pre- 
served in the family of Watersou of Ballnahow of Kirk Church, Rushin. Will- 
iam Dhoue is dressed in a green coat without collar or cape, after the fashion 

15 


450 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


of those puritanic times, with the head in a close-cropped wig, resembling the 
bishop’s peruke of the present day. The countenance is youthful and well- 
looking, very unlike, the ’expi’ession of foreboding melancholy. I have so far 
taken advantage of this criticism, as to bring my ideal portrait in the present 
edition nearer to the complexion at least of the fair-haired William Dlione. 

Note I. — Whalley the Regicide. 

There is a common tradition in America that this person, who was never 
heard of after the Restoration, fled to Massachusetts, and, living for some 
years concealed in that province, Anally closed his days thei'e. The remarka- 
ble and beautiful story of his having suddenly emerged from his place of con- 
cealment, and, placing himself at the head of a party of settlers, shown them 
the mode of acquiring a victory, when they were on the point of yielding to 
the Indians, is also told; and in all probability truly. I have; seen the whole 
tradition commented upon at large in a late North American publication, 
which goes so far as to ascertain the obscure grave to which the remains of 
Whalley were secretly committed. This singular story has lately afforded the 
justly celebrated American novelist, Mr. Cooper, the materials from which he 
has compiled one of those impressive narratives of the aboriginal inhabitants 
of the Transatlantic woods and the hardy Europeans by whom they were in- 
vaded and dispossessed. 

Note K.— Sodor, or Houvi-Peel, in the Isle of Man. 

The author has never seen this ancient fortress, which in its circuit so 
much that is fascinating to the antiquary. Waldron has given the following 
description, which is perhaps somewhat exaggerated : 

“ Peel, or Pile-Town, is so called from its garrison and castle; though in 
effect the castle cannot properly be said to be in the town, an arm of the sea 
running between them, which in high tides would be deep enough to bear a 
ship of forty or fifty ton, though sometimes quite drained of salt water; but 
then it is supplied with fresh by a river which runs from Kirk Jarmyn Mount- 
ains, and empties itself into the sea. This castle for its situation, antiquity, 
strength, and beauty, might justly come in for one of the w’onders or the 
world. Art and nature seem to have vied with each other in the model, nor 
ought the most minute particular to escape observation. As to its situation, 
it is built upon the top of a huge rock, w'hich Tears itself a stupendous height 
above the sea, w ith which, as I said before, it is surrounded. And also by 
natural fortifications of other lesser rocks, which render it inaccessible but by 
passing that little arm of the sea which divides it from the towm ; this you may 
do in a small boat; and the natives, tucking up their clothes under their arms, 
and plucking off their shoes and stockings, frequently wade it in low tides. 
When you arrive at the foot of the rock, you ascend about some threescore 
steps, which are cut out of it to the first w’all, which is immenselv thick and 
high, and built of a very durable and bright stone, though not of the same sort 
with that of Castle Russin in Castle Towm ; and has on it four little houses, or 
watch-towers, which overlook the sea. The gates are w'ood, but most curi- 
ously arched, carved, and adorned with pilasters. Having passed the first, 
you have other stairs of near half the number with the former to mount, be- 
fore you come at the second wall, which, as well as the other, is full of port- 
holes, for cannon, w'hich are planted on stone cros-ses on a third wall. Being 
entered, you find yourself in a wdde plain, in the midst of which stands the 
castle, encompassed by four churches, three of which time has so much de- 
cayed, that there is little remaining besides the walls, and some few tombs, 
which seem to have been erected with so much care, as to perpetuate the 
memory of those buried in them, till the final dissolution of all tnings. The 
fourth is kept a little better in repair; but not so much for its own sake, 
though it has been the most magnificent of them all, as for a chapel wdthin it; 
which is appropriated to the use of the bishop, and has under it a prison, or 
rather dungeon, for those offenders who are so miserable as to incur the 
spiritual censure. This is certainly one of the most dreadful places that 
imagination can form. The sea runs under it through the hollows ot the rock 
with such a continual roar, that you would think it were every moment 
breaking in upon you, and over it are the vaults for burying the dead. The 
stairs descending to the place of terrors are not above thirty, but so steep and 
narrow, that they are very difficult to go dowm, a child of eight or nine years 
old not being able to pass them but sideways. Within it are thirteen pillars, 
on which the whole chapel is supported. They have a superstition, that 
whatsoever stranger goes to see this cavern out of curiosity, and omits to 


KOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK 


451 


count the pillars, shall do something to occasion being confined there. There 
are places for penance also under all the other churches, containing several 
very dark and horrid cells ; some have nothing in them either to sit or lie 
down on, others a small piece of brick work ; some are lower and more dark 
than others, but all of them, in my opinion, dreadful enough for almost any 
crime humanity is capable of being guilty of; though ’tis supposed they were 
built with different degrees of horror, that the punishm.ent might be pro- 
portionate to the faults of those wretches who were to be confined in them. 
These have never been made use of since the times of popery; but that under 
the bishop’s Chapel is the common and only prison for all offences in the 
spiritual court, and to that the delinquents are sentenced. But the soldiers of 
the garrison permit them to suffer their confinement in the castle, it being 
morally impossible for the strongest constitution to sustain the damps and 
noisomeness of the cavern even for a few hours, much less for mouths and 
years, as is the punishment sometimes allotted. But I shall speak hereafter 
raoi’e fully of the severity of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction. ’Tis certain that 
here have been very great architects in this island ; for the noble monuments 
in this church, which is kept in repair, and indeed the ruins of the others also, 
shew the builders to be masters of all the orders in that art, though the great 
number of Doric pillars prove them to be chiefly admirers of that. Nor are 
the epitaphs and inscriptions on the tombstones less worthy of remark ; the 
various languages in which they are engraved, testify by what a diversity of 
nations this little spot of earth has been possessed. Though time has defaced 
too many of the letters to render the remainder intelligible, yet you may easily 

f ierceive fragments of the Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Arabian, Saxon, Scotch, and 
rish characters ; some dates yet visible declare they were written before the 
coming of Christ; and, indeed, if one considers the walls, the thickness of 
them, and the durableness of the stone of which they are composed, one must 
be sensible that a great number of centuries must pass before such strong 
workmanship could be reduced to the condition it now is. These churches, 
therefore, were doubtless once the temples of Pagan deities, though since 
consecrated to the worship of the true divinity ; and what confirms me more 
strongly in this conjecture, is, that there is still a part of one remaining, 
where stands a large stone difectly in form and manner like the Triposes, 
which in those days of ignorance, the priests stood upon, to deliver their 
fabulous oracles. Through one of these old churches, there was formerly a 
passage to the apartment belonging to the captain of the guard, but is now 
closed up. The reason they give you for it is a pretty odd one ; but as I think 
it not sufficient satisfaction to my curious reader, to acquaint him with what 
sort of buildings this island affords, without letting him know also what tra- 
ditions are concerning them, 1 shall have little regard to the censure of those 
critics, who find fault with everything out of the common road ; and in this, 
as well as in all other places, where it falls in my way, shall make it my en- 
deavor to lead him into the humors and very souls of the Manx people. They 
say that an apparition, called in their language the Mauthe Doog, in the shape 
of a large black spaniel with curled shaggy hair, was used to haunt Peel 
Castle, and has been frequently seen in every room, but particularly in the 
guard-chamber, where, as soon as candles were lighted, it came and lay down 
before the fire, in presence of all the soldiei-s, who at length, by being so much 
accustomed to the sight of it, lost great part of the terror they were seized 
with at its first appearance. They still, however, retained a certain awe, as 
believing it was an evil spirit which only waited permission to do them htirt, 
and for that reason forbore swearing and all profane discourse while in its 
company. But though they endured the shock of such a guest when alto- 
gether in a body, none cared to be left alone with it ; it being the custom, 
therefore, for one of the soldiers to lock the gates of the castle at a certain 
hour, and carry the keys to the captain, to whose apartment, as I said before, 
the way led through a church, they agredd among themselves that whoever 
was to succeed the ensuing night his fellow in this errand should accompany 
him that went first, and by this means no man would be exposed singly to tli’e 
danger; for I forgot to mention that the Mauthe Doog was always seen to 
come out from that passage at the close of day, and return to it again as 
soon as the morning dawned, which made them look on this place as its pecul- 
iar residence. One night, a fellow being drunk, and by the strength of his 
liquor rendered more daring than ordinary, laughed at the simplicity of his 
companions, and though it was not his turn to go with the keys, would needs 
take that office upon him to testify his courage. All the soldiers endeavored 
to dissuade him, but the more they said, the more resolute he seemed, and 
swore that he desired nothing more than that Mauthe Doog would follow him, 


453 


NOTES TO PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK 


as it had done the others, for he would try if it were dog or devil. After hav- 
ing talked in a very reprobate manner for some time, he snatched up the 
keys and went out of the guard-room ; in some time after his departure a 
great noise was heard, but nobody had the boldness to see what occasioned it 
till, the adventurer returning, they demanded the knowledge of him ; but, as 
loud and noisy as he had been at leaving them, he was now become sober and 
silent enough, for he was never heard to speak more ; and though all the time 
he lived, which was three days, he was entreated by all who came near him 
either to speak, or, if he could not do that, to make some signs by which they 
might understand what had happened to him, yet nothing intelligible could be 
got from him, only that, by the distortion of his limbs and features, it might 
be guessed that he died in agonies more than are common in a natural death. 
The Mauthe Doog was, however, never seen after in the castle, nor would 
any one attempt to go through that passage, for which reason it was 
closed up, and another way made. This accident happened about threescore 
years since, and I heard it attested by several, but especially by an old soldier, 
who assured me he had seen it oftener than he had then hairs on his head. 
Having taken notice of everything remarkable in the churches, I believe my 
reader will be impatient to come to the castle itself, which, in spite of the 
magnificence the pride of modern ages has adorned the palaces of princes 
with, exceeds not only everything I have seen, but also read of, in nobleness 
of structure. Though now no more than a garrison for soldiers, you cannot 
enter it without being struck with a veneration which the most beautiful 
buildings of later years cannot inspire you with ; the largeness and loftiness of 
the rooms, the vast echo resounding through them, the many winding galleries, 
the prospect of the sea, and the ships, which, by reason of the height of the 
place, seem but like buoys floating on the waves, make you fancy yourself in a 
superior orb to what the rest of mankind inhabit, and fill you with contempla- 
tions the most refined and pure that the soul is capable of conceiving.” — Wal- 
dron’s Description of the Isle of Man^ folio, 1731, p. 103. 

In this description, the account of the inscriptions in so matty Oriental lan- 
guages, and bearing date, before the Christian era, is certainly as much exag- 
gerated as the story of the Mauthe Doog itself. It would be verj’- desirable to 
find out the meaning of the word Mauthe in the Manx language, which is a 
dialect of the Gaelic. I observe that Maithe in Gaelic, amongst other signifi- 
cations, has that of active or speedy ; and also that a dog of Richard II., men- 
tioned by Froissart, and supposed to intimate the fall of his master’s authority 
by leaving him and fawning on Bolingbroke, was termed Mauthe; but neither 
Of these particulars tends to explain the very impressive story of the fiendish 
hound of Peel Castle. 

Note L.— Castle Rushin. 

Beneath the only one of the fotir churches in Castle Rushin, which is or was 
kept a little in repair, is a prison or dungeon for ecclesiastical offenders. 
“This,” says Waldron, “is certainly one of the most dreadful places that 
imagination can form ; the sea runs under it through the hollows of the rocK 
with such a continual roar, that you would think it were every moment break- 
ing in upon you, and over it are the vaults- for burying the dead. The stairs 
descending to this place of terrors are not above thirty, but so steep and nar- 
row that they are very difficult to go down, a child of eight or nine years not 
being able to pass them but sideways.”— Waldron’s DescHption of the Isle of 
Man, in his Works, p, 105, folio. 

Note M.— Manx Superstitions. 

The story often alludes to the various superstitions which are, or at least 
were, received by the inhabitants of the Isle of Man, an ancient Celtic race, 
still speaking the language of their fathers. They retained a plentiful stock 
of those wild legends which overaw’ed the reason of a dark age, and in our 
own time annoy the imagination of those who listen to the fascination of 
the tale, w hile they despise its claims to belief. The following curious legend- 
ary traditions are extracted from Waldron, a huge mine, in which I have at- 
tempted to discover some specimens of spar, if I cannot find treasure. 

“ ’Tis this ignorance,” meaning that of the islanders, “ which iij the occasion 
of the excessive superstition which reigns among them. I have already given 
some hints of it, but not enough to show’ the world w’hat a Maliksman truly is, 
and ’.vhat pow’er the prejudice of education has over weak minds. If books 
w'ere of any use among them, one would swear the Count of Gabalis had been 
not only translated into the Manks tongue, but that it w’as a sort of rule of 
faith to them, since there is no fictitious being mentioned by him, in his book 


KOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


453 

of absurdities, which they would not readily give credit to. I know not, idol- 
izers as they are of the clergy, whether they would not be even refractory to 
them, were they to preach against the existence of fairies, or even against 
their being commonly seen ; for though the priesthood are a kind of gods 
among them, yet still tradition is a greater god than they; and as they confi- 
dently assert that the first inhabitants of their island were fairies, so do they 
maintain that these little people have still their residence among them. They 
call them the Good People, and say they live in wilds and forests, and on 
mountains, and shun great cities because of the wickedness acted therein ; all 
the houses are blessed where they visit, for they fiy vice. A person would be 
thought impudently profane who should suffer his family to go to bed without 
having first set a tub, or pail, full of clean water, for these guests to bathe 
themselves in, which the natives aver they constantly do, as soon as ever the 
eyes of the family are closed, wherever they vouchsafe tocome. If anything hap- 
pen to be mislaid, and found again in some place where it was not expected, 
they presently tell you a fairy took it and returned it; if you chance to get a 
fall and hurt yourself, a fairy laid something in your way to throw you down 
as a punishment for some sin you have committed. I have heard many o£ 
them protest they have been carried insensibly great distances from home, 
and, without knowing how they came thei'e, found themselves cn the top of a 
mountain. One story in particular was told me of a man who had been led by 
invisible musicians for several miles together; and not being able to resist the 
harmony, followed till it conducted him to a large common, where were a 
great number of little people sitting round a table, and eating and drinking 
in a very jovial manner. Among them were some faces whom he thought he 
had formerljr seen, but forbore taking any notice, or they of him, till the little 
people, offering him drink, one of them, whose features seemed not unknown 
to him, plucked him by the coat, and forbade him, whatever he did, to taste 
anything he saw before him ; for if you do, added he, you will be as T am, and 
return no more to your family. The poor man was much affrighted, but re- 
solved to obey the injunction; accordingly a large silver cup, filled with some 
sort of liquor, being put into his hand, he found an opportunity to throw what 
it contained on the ground. Soon after, the music ceasing, all the company 
disappeared, leaving the cup in his hand, and he returned home, though much 
wearied and fatigued. He went the next day and communicated to the minis- 
ter of the parish all that had happened, and asked his advice how he should 
dispose of the cup ; to which the parson replied, he could not do better than 
devote it to the service of the church ; and this very cup, they tell me, is that 
which is now used for the consecrated wine in Kirk-Merlugh. 

“ Another instance they gave me to prove the reality cf fairies was of a fid- 
dler who, having agreed with a person, w'ho was a stranger, for so much 
money, to play to some company he should bring him to, all the twelve days 
of Christmas, and received earnest for it, saw his new master vanish into the 
earth the moment he had made the bargain. Nothing qoul J be more terrified 
than was the poor fiddler; he found he had entered himself into the devil’s 
service, and looked on himself as already damned; biit, having recourse also 
to a clergyman, he received some hope; he ordered him, however, as he had 
taken earnest, to go when he should be called ; but that, whatever tunes 
should be called for, to play none but psalms. On the day appointed the same 
person appeared, with whom he went, though with what inward reluctance 
’tis easy to guess ; but, punctually obeying the minister’s directions, the com- 

E any to whom he played were so angry that they all vanished at once, leaving 
im at the top of a high hill, and so bruised and hurt— though he was not 
sensible when or from what hand he received the blows- that he got not home 
without the utmost difficulty. The old story of infants being changed in their 
cradles is here in such credit that mothers are in continual terror at the 
thoughts of it. I was prevailed upon myself to go and see a child who, they 
told me, was one of these changelings; and, indeed, must own was not a little 
surprised, as well as shocked, at the sight. Nothing under heaven could have 
a more beautiful face; but, though between five and six years old, and seem- 
ingly healthy, he was so far from being able to walk or stand, that he could 
not so much as move any one joint; his limbs were vastly long for his age, 
but smaller than an infant’s of six mouths ; his complexion was perfectly deli- 
cate, and he had the finest hair in the world ; he never spoke nor cried, ate 
scarce anything, and was very seldom seen to smile ; but if any one called 
him a fair5^-elf, he would frown, and fix his eyes so earnestly on those who 
said it, as if he would look them through. His mother, or at least his sup- 
posed mother, being very poor, frequently went out a-ehairing, and left him a 
whole day together; the neighbors, out of curiosity, have often looked in at 


454 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


the window to see how he behaved when alone ; which, whenever they did, 
they were' sure to find him laughing, and in the utmost delight. This made 
them judge that he was not without company more pleasing to him than any 
mortals could be; and what made this conjecture seem the more reasonable 
was, that if he were left ever so dirty, the woman, at her return, saw him with 
a clean face, and his hair combed with the utmost exactness and nicety. 

“ A second account of this nature I had from a woman to whose offspring 
the fairies seemed to have taken a particular fancy. The fourth or fifth night 
after she was delivered of her first child, the family were alarmed with a most 
terrible cry of fire, on which everybody ran out of the house to see whence it 
proceeded, not excepting the nurse, who, being as much frightened as the 
others, made one of the number. The poor woman lay trembling in her bed 
alone, unable to help herself, and her back being turned to the infant, saw not 
that it was taken away by an invisible hand. Those who had left her having 
inquired about the neighborhood, and finding there was no cause for the out- 
ciy they had heard, laughed at each other for the mistake: but as they were 
going to re-enter the house, the poor babe lay on the threshold, and by its 
cries preserved itself from being trod upon. This exceedingly amazed all that 
saw it, and the mother, being still in bed, they could ascribe no reason for find- 
ing it there but having been removed by fairies, who, by their sudden return, 
had been prevented from carrying it any farther. About a 3'ear after, the 
same -n'ornau w'as brought to bed of a second child, which had not been born 
many nights before a great noise was heard in the house where they kept 
their cattle (for in this island, where there is no shelter in the fields from the 
excessive cold and damps, they put all their milch-kine into a barn, which 
they call a cattle-house). Everj'bodj' that was stirring ran to see what was 
the matter, believing that the cows had got loose; the nurse was as ready as 
the rest, but, finding all safe, and the barn door closed, immediatelj' returned, 
but not so suddenly but that the new'-born babe was taken out of the bed, as 
the former had been, and dropped, on their coming, in the middle of the entry. 
This was enough to prove the fairies had made a second attempt; and the 

g arents, sending for a minister, joined with him in thanksgiving to God, who 
ad twice delivered their children from being taken from them. But in the * 
time of her third lying-in, eveiybodj' seemed to have forgot what had hap- 
pened in the first and second, and, on a noise in the cattle-house, ran out to 
know w'hat had occasioned it. The nurse was the only person, excepting the 
w'oman in the straw, who stayed in the house ; nor was she detained through 
care or Avant of curiosity, but hy the bonds of sleep, having drank a little too 
plentifully the preceding day. The mother, who was broad awake, saw her 
child lifted out cf the bed and carried out of the chamber, though she could 
not see any person touch it; on which she cried out, as loud as she could, 
‘Nurse! nurse! my child— my child is taken away!’ but the old Avoman AA^as 
too fast to be aAvakened by the noise she made, and the infant was irretriev- 
ably gone. When her husband and those Avho had accompanied him re- 
turned, they found her Avringing her hands and uttering the most piteous 
lamentations for the loss of her child ; on Avhich, said the husband, looking 
into the bed, ‘The Avoman is mad ! Do not you see the child lies by you?’ 
On Avhich she turned, and saAV, indeed, something like a child, but far differ- 
ent from her own, Avho Avas a very beautiful, fat, Avell-featured babe ; whereas, 
Avhat AA'as noAV in the room c f it A\-as a poor, lean, AAuthered, deformed creature. 
It lay quite naked, but the clothes belcnging to the child that AA'as exchanged 
for it lay’ Avrapped up all together on the bed. Tliis creature lived Avith them 
near the space cf nine years, in all Avhich time it ate nothing except a few 
herbs, nor AA'as ever seen to void any other excrement than Avater. It neither 
.spoke nor could stand or go, but seemed enerv-ate in every' joint, like the 
changeling I menticued before, and in ail its actions shOAved itself to be of the 
same nature, 

“ A AA'oman Avho lived about tAvo miles distant from Ballasalli, and used to 
.serv'e my family' Avith butter, made me once very merry Avith a story she told 
me of her daughter, a girl of about ten years oid, who, being sent over the 
fields to the town for a peun.yAvorth of tobacco for her father, Avas on the top 
of a mountain, sui rounded by a great number of little men, Avho would not 
suffer her to pass any' farther. Some of them said she should go with them, 
and accordingly laid hold of her; but one, seeming more pitiful, desired they 
would let her alone ; which they* refusing, there ensued a quarrel, and the per- 
son Avho took her part fought bravely in her defense. This so incensed the 
others that, to be revenged on her for being the cause, tAA'o or three of them 
seized her, and. pulling up her clothes, Avhipped her heartily; after which, it 
seems, they had no farther povA'er over her, and she ran home directly, telling 


KOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK 


465 


what had befallen her, and showing her buttocks, on which were the prints of 
several small hands. Several of the townspeople went with her to the mount- 
ain. and she conducting them to the spot, the little antagonists were gone, but 
had left behind them proofs (as the good woman said) that what the girl had 
informed them was true, for there was a great deal of blood to be seen on the 
stones. This did she aver with ail the solemnity imaginable. 

“ Another woman, equally superstitious and fanciful as the former, told me, 
that being great with child, and expecting every moment the good hour, as 
she lay awake one night in her bed, she saw seven or eight little women come 
into chamber, one of whom had an infant in her arms ; they were followed 
by a man of the same size with themselves, but in the habit of a minister. 
One of them went to the pail, and finding no water in it, cried out to the others, 
. what must they do to christen the child? On which they replied, it should be 
done in beer. With that the seeming parson took the child in his arms, and 
performed the ceremony of baptism, dipping his hand into a great tub of 
strong beer, which the woman had brewed the day before to be read}’^ for her 
lying-in. She told me that they baptized the infant by the name of Joan, 
which made her know she was pregnant of a girl, as it proved a few days 
after, when she w'as delivered. She added also, that it w'as common for the 
fairies to make a mock christening when any person was near her time, and 
that according to what child, male or female, they brought, such should the 
woman bring into the world. 

“ But I cannot give over this subject without mentioning what they say be- 
fell a young sailor, who, coming off a long vo3’^age, though it was late at night, 
chose to land rather than be another night in the vessel ; being permitted to 
do so, he was set on shore at Douglas. It happened to be a fine moonlight 
night, and very dry, being a small frost ; he therefore forbore going into any 
house to refresh himself, but made the best of his way to the house of a sister 
he had at Kirk-Merlugh. As he was going over a pretty high mountain, he 
heard the noise of horses, the hollow of a huntsman, and the finest horn in the 
world. He was a little surprised that anybody pursued those kinds of sports 
in the night, but he had not time for nnuch reflection before they all passed b.y 
him, so near that he was able to count what number there was of them, which, 
he .said, was thirteen, and that they were all dressed in green, and gallantly 
mounted. He was so well pleased with tlie sight, that he would gladly have 
followed, could he have kept pace with them ; he crossed the footway, how- 
ever, that he might see them again, which he did more than once, and lost not 
the sound of the horn for some miles. At length, being arrived at his sister’s, 
he tells her the story, wdio presentlj' clapped her hands for joy that he was 
come home safe; for, said she, those 5'ou saw were fairies, and ’tis well thej' 
did not take you away with them. There is no persuading them but that these 
huntings are frequent in the island, and that these little gentrj', being too 
proud to ride on .blanks horses, which they might find in the field, make use of 
the English and Irish ones, which are brought over and kept bj" gentlemen, 
Thej' say that nothing is more common than to find these poor beasts, in a 
morning, all over in a sweat and foam, and tired almost to death, wdien their 
owners have believed they have never been out of the stable. A gentleman of 
Ballafletcher assured me, he had three or fcur of his best horses killed wuth 
these nocturnal journeys. 

“ At my first coming into the island, and hearing these sort of stories, I im- 
puted the giving credit to them merely to the simplicit.v of the poor creatures 
3vho related them; but was strangely surprised when! heard other narratives 
of this kind, and altogether as absurd, attested b.y men who passed for persons 
of sound judgment. Among this number was a gentleman, my near neighbor, 
who affirmed, with the most solemn asseverations, that being of my opinion, 
and entirely averse to the belief that any such beings were peimitted to wan- 
der for the purposes related of them, he had been at last convinced by the ap- 
pearance of several little figures playing and leaping over some stones in a 
field, whom at a few yards’ distance he imagined were school-boys, and in- 
tended, when became near enough, to reprimand for being absent from their 
exercises at that time of the day, it being then, he said, between three and 
four of the clock; but w’hen he approached, as near as he could guess, within 
twenty paces, they all immediately disappeared, though he had never taken 
his eye off them from the first moment he beheld them ; nor was there any 
place where they could so* suddenly retreat, it being an open field wdthout 
hedge or bush, and, as I said before, broad day, 

“ Another instance, which might serve to strengthen the credit of the other, 
was told me by a person who had the reputation of the utmost integrity. This 
man being desirous of disposing of a horse he had at that time no great occa* 


456 


KOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


sion for, and riding him to market for that purpose, was accosted, in passing 
over the mountains, by a little man in a plain dress, who asked him if he 
would sell his horse. ’Tis the design I am going on, replied the person who 
told me the story. On which the other desired to know the price. Eight 
pounds, said he. No, resumed the purchaser, I will give no more than seven ; 
which, if you will take, here is your money. The owner, thinking he had bid 
pretty fair, agreed with him ; and the money being told out, the one dis- 
mounted, and the other got on the back of the horse, which he had no sooner 
done, than both beast and rider sunk into the earth immediately, leaving the 
person who had made the bargain in the utmost terror and consternation. As 
soon as he had a little recovered himself, he went directly to the parson of the 
parish, and related what had passed, desiring he would give his opinion 
whether he ought to make use of the money he had received or not. To which 
he replied, that as he had made a fair bargain, and no way circumvented, nor 
endeavored to circumvent, the bu3’er, he saw no reason to believe, in case it 
was an evil spirit, it could have any power over him. On this assurance, he 
went home well satisfied, and nothing afterward happened to give him any 
disquiet concerning this affair. 

“ A second account of the same nature I had from a clergyman, and a per- 
son of more sanctity than the generality of his function in this island. It was 
his custom to pass some hours every evening in a field near his house, indulg- 
ing meditation, and calling himself to an account for the transactions of the 
past day. As he was in this place one night, more than ordinarily wrapt in 
contemplation, he wandered, without thinking where he was, a considerable 
way farther than it was usual for him to do ; and, as he told me, he knew not 
how far the deep musing he was in might have carried him, if it had not been 
suddenly interrupted by a noise, which, at first, he took to be the distant bel- 
lowing of a bull; but as he listened more heedfully to it, found there was 
something more terrible in the sound than could proceed from that creature. 
He confessed to me, that he was no less affrighted than surprised, especially 
when the noise coming still nearer, he imagined, whatever it was that it pro- 
ceeded from, it must pass him. He had, however, presence enough of mind 
to place himself Avith his back to a hedge, Avhere he fell on his knees, and be- 
gan to pray to God Avith all the vehemence so dreadful an occasion required. 
He had not been long in that position, before he beheld something in the form 
of a bull, but infinitely larger than ever he had seen in England, much less in 
Man, where the cattle are very small in general. The eyes, he said, seemed 
to shoot forth flames, and the running of it was with such a force, that the 
ground shook under it as an earthquake. It made directly tovA^ard a little cot- 
tage, and thereafter most horribly disappeared. The moon being then at the 
full, and shining in her utmost splendor, all these passages were visible to our 
amazed divine, who, having finished his ejaculation, and given thanks to God 
for his preservation, AA^ent to the cottage, the owner of Avnich, they told him, 
was that moment dead. The good old gentleman was loath to pass a censure 
which might be judged an uncharitable one; but the deceased having the 
character of a very ill liver, most people Avho heax’d the storj’, were apt to 
imagine this terrible apparition came to attend his last momenta, 

“ A mighty bustle they also make of an apparition, which, they say, haunts 
Castle Russin, in the form of a woman who Avas some years since executed 
for the murder of her child. I have heard not only persons who have been 
confined there for debt, but also the soldiers of the garrison, affli’m they have 
seen it various times; but what I took most notice of, was the report of a gen- 
tleman, of Avhose good understanding, as Avell as veracity, I have a very great 
opinion. He told me, that happening to be abroad late one night, and catched 
in an excessive storm of wind and rain, he saw a Avoman stand before the 
castle gate, Avhere, being not the least shelter, it something surprised him that 
anybody, much less one of that sex, should not x'ather run to some little poi'ch, 
or shed, of which there are several in Castle Town, than chuse to stand still, 
exposed and alone, to such a dreadful tempest. His curiosity exciting him to 
draw nearer, that he might discover who it was that seemed so little to regard 
the fury of the elements, he perceived she i-etreated on his approach, and at 
last, he thought, Avent into the Castle, though the gates Avere shut. This 
obliging him to think he had seen a spirit, sent him home very much terrified ; 
but the next day, relating his adventure to some people who lived in the 
Castle, and describing, as near as he could, the garb and stature of the appari- 
tion, they told him it Avas that of the Avoman above mentioned, who had been 
frequently seen by the soldiers on guard, to pass in and out of the gates, as 
well as to walk through the rooms, though there was no visible means to en- 
ter. Though so familiar to the eye, no person has yet, hoAvever, had the 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


457 


courage to speak to it, and, as they say a spirit has no power to reveal its 
mind without being conjured to do so in a proper manner, the reason of its 
being permitted to wander is unknown. 

“ Another story of tiie like nature I have heard concerning an apparition, 
which has frequently been seen on a wild common near Kirk Jarmyn mount- 
ains, which, they say, assumes the shape of a wolf, and fills the air with most 
terrible bowlings. But having run on so far in the account of supernatural 
appearances. I cannot forget what was told me by an English gentleman, and 
my particular friend. He was about passing over Duglas Bridge before it was 
broken down, but the tide being high, he was obliged to take the river, having 
an excellent horse under him, and one accustomed to swim. As he was in 
the middle of it, he heard, or imagined he heard, the finest symphony, I will 
not say in the world, for nothing human ever came up to it. The horse was 
no less sensible of the harmony than himself, and kept in an immovable post- 
ure all the time it lasted; which, he said, could not be less than three quarters 
of an hour, according to the most exact calculation he could make, when he 
arrived at the end of his little journey, and found how long he had been com- 
ing. He, who before laughed at all the stories told of fairies, now became a 
convert, and believed as much as ever a Manksman of them all. As to circles 
in the grass, and the impression of small feet among the snow, I cannot deny 
but I have seen them frequently, and once thought I heard a whistle, as 
though in my ear, when nobody that could make it was near me. For my 
part, I shall not pretend to determine if such appearances have any reality, 
or are only the effect of the imagination ; but as 1 had much rather give credit 
to them, than be convinced by ocular demonstration, I shall leave the point 
to be discussed by those who have made it more their study, and only say, 
that whatever belief we ought to give to some accounts of this kind, there are 
others, and those much more numerous, which merit only to be laughed at — 
it not being at all consonant to reason, or the idea religion gives us of the 
fallen angels, to suppose spirits, so eminent in wisdom and knowledge, as to 
be exceeded by nothing but their Creator, should visit the earth for such tri- 
fling purposes as to throw bottles and glasses about a room, and a thousand 
other as ridiculous gambols mentioned in those voluminous treatises of ap- 
paritions. 

“The natives of this island tell you also, that before any person dies, the 
procession of the funeral is acted by a sort of beings, which for that end ren- 
der themselves visible. I know several that have offered to make oath, that 
as they have been passing the road, one of these funerals has come behind 
them, and even laid the bier on their shoulders, as though to assist the bear- 
ers. One person, who assured me he had been served so, told me that the 
flesh of his shoulder had been very much bruised, and was black for many 
w'eeks after. There are few or none of them who pretend not to have seen or 
heard these imaginary obsequies, (for I must not omit that they sing psalms 
in the same manner as those do -who accompany the corpse of a dead friend,) 
which so little differ from real ones, that they are not to be known till both 
coffin and mourners are seen to vanish at the church doors. These they take 
to be a sort of friendly demons, and their business, they say, is to warn people 
of what is to befall them ; accordingly, they give notice of any stranger’s ap- 
proach, by the trampling of horses at the gate of the house where they are to 
arrive. As difficult as I found it to bring myself to give any faith to this, I 
have frequently been very much surprised, when, on visiting a friend, I have 
found the table ready spread, and everything in order to receive me, and be- 
ing told by the person to whom I went, that he had knowledge of my coming, 
or some other guest, by these good-natured intelligencers; nay, when obliged 
to be absent some time from home, my own servants have assured me they 
w'ere informed by these means of my return, and expected me the very hour 
I came, though, perhaps, it w'as some days before I hoped it myself at my go- 
ing abroad. That this is fact, I am positively convinced by many proofs ; but 
how or wherefore it should be so, has frequently given me much matter of 
reflection, yet left me in the same uncertainty as before. Here, therefore, I 
will quit the subject, and proceed to things much easier to be accounted for. ’ 
— Wai.uron’s Description of the Isle of Man, folio, 1731, p. 125. 

This long quotation is extremely curious, as containing an account of those 
very superstitions in the Isle of Man, which are frequently collected both in 
Ireland and in the Highlands of Scotland, and which have employed the at- 
tention of Mr. Crofton Croker, and of the author of the Fairy Mythology. 
The superstitions are in every respect so like each other, that they may be re- 
ferred to one common source ; unless we conclude that they are natural to 
the humau mind, and, like the common orders of vegetables, which naturally 


458 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK 


spring up in every climate, these naturally arise in every bosom ; as the best 
philologists are of opinion, that fragments of an original speech are to be dis- 
covered in almost all languages in the globe. 

Note N.— Sale of a Dancing Girl. 

An instance of such a sale of an unfortunate dancing girl occurred in Edin- 
burgh in the end of the Seventeenth Century ; 

“ 13th January, 1689.— Reid the mountebank pursues Scott of Harden and 
his lady, for stealing away from him a little girl called The tumbling lassie, 
that danced upon a stage, and he claimed damages, and produced a contract, 
by which he bought her from her mother for thirty pounds Scots [L.2, 10s. 
sterling]. But we have no slaves in Scotland,” continues the liberal reporter, 
“ and mothers cannot sell their bairns; and physicians attested that the em- 
ployment of tumbling would kill her, and her joints were now grown stiff, and 
she declined to return, though she was at least an apprentice, and could not 
run away h'om her master. Yet some quoted Moses’s Law, that if a servant 
shelter himself with thee, against his master’s cruelty, thou shalt surely not 
deliver him up. The Lords, renitente cancellario, assoilzied [t. e. acquitted] 
Harden.”— Fountainhall’s Decisions, vol. i. p. 441. 

A man may entertain some vanity in being connected with a patron of the 
cause of humanity ; so the author 'may be pardoned mentioning, that he de- 
rives his own direct descent from the father of this champion of humanity. 

Reid the mountebank apparently knew well how to set the sails of his own 
interest to whatever wind proved most likel3'- to turn them. He failed not to 
avail himself of King James’s rage for the conversion of heretics, on which 
subject Fountainhall has this sarcastic memorandum : 

” Reid, the mountebank, is received into the Popish church, and one of his 
blackamoors was persuaded to accept of baptism from the Popish priests, and 
to turn Christian Papist, which was a great trophy. He was christened James 
after the King, and Chancellor, and the Apostle James V'—lbid. p. 440. 

Note O.— "Witnesses of the Popish Plot. 

The infamous character of those who contrived and carried on the pre- 
tended Popish Plot, maj’ be best estimated by the account given in North’s 
Examen, who describes Oates himself with considerable power of coloring, 
“ He was now in his trine exaltation, his plot in full force, efficacy, and virtue ; 
he walked about with his guards [assigned for fear of the Papists murdering 
him.] He had lodgings in ■\VhitehalI, and L. 1200 per annum pension : And no 
w'onder. after he had the impudence to say to the House of Lords, in plain 
terms, that, if they would not help him to more money, he must be forced to 
help himself. He put on an Episcopal garb, (except the lawm sleeves,) silk- 
gown and cassock, great hat, satin hatband and rose, long scarf, and was 
called, or most blasphemously called himself, the Saviour of the nation ; who- 
ever he pointed at, was taken up and committed; so that many people got 
out of his waj’, as from a blast, and glad they could prove their two last j ears’ 
conversation. The very breath of him was pestilential, and, if it brought not 
imprisonment, or death, over such on whom it fell, it surelj’ poisoned reputa- 
tion, and left good Protestants arrant Papists, and something worse than that 
—in danger of being put in the plot as traitors. Upon his examination before 
the Commons, the Lord Chief-Justice Scroggs was sent for to the House, and 
there signed warrants for the imprisonment of five Roman Catholic peers, 
upon which thej^ were laid up in the Tower. The votes of the House seemed 
to confirm the whole. A solemn form of pra.yer was desired upon the subject 
of the plot, and when one was prepared, it was found faulty, because the 
Papists were not named as authors of it; God surely knew whether it were so 
or not: however, it was j ielded to, that omniscience might not want informa- 
tion. The Queen herself was accused at the Commons bar. The city, for 
fear of the Papists, put up their postsand chains; and the chamberlain, Sir 
Thomas Plaj'er, in the Court of Aldermen, gave his reason for the city’s using 
that caution, -which was, that he did not know but the next morning they 
might all rise with their throats cut. The trials, convictions, and executions 
of the priests, Jesuits, and others, -were had, and attended with vast mob and 
noise. Nothing ordinary or moderate was to be heard in people’s communi- 
cation; but every debate and action was high-flown and tumultuous. All 
freedom of speech was taken away; and not to believe the plot, was wmrse 
than being Turk, Jew, or infidel. For this fact of Godfrey’s murder, the three 
poor men of Somerset-house were, as was said, convicted. The most pitiful 
circumstance was that of their trial, under the popular prejudice against 


KOTES TO PEVERIii OP THE PEAK 


459 


them. The Lord Chief-Justice Scroggs took in with the tide, and ranted for 
the plot, hewing down Popery, as Scanderberg hewed the Turk; M'hich was 
but little propitious to them. The other judges were passive, and meddled 
little, except some that were takers in also ; and particularly the good Re- 
corder Terby, who eased the A.ttorney-General, for he seldom asked a ques- 
tion, but one might guess he foresaw the answer. Some may blame the (at 
best) passive behavior of the Judges; but really, considering it was impossible 
to stem such a current, the appearing to do it in vain had been more unprofit- 
able, because it had inflamed the great and small rout, drawn scandal on 
themselves, and disabled them from taking in, when, opportunity should be 
more favorable. The prisoners under these hardships, had enough to do to 
make any defence ; for where the testimony was positive, it was conclusive , 
for no reasoning ab improbabili would serve the turn ; it must be ab impossi- 
bili, or not at all. Whoever doth not w^ell observe the power of judging, may 
think many things, in the course of justice, very strange. If one side is held 
to demonstration, and the other allowed presumptions for proofs, any cause 
may be carried. In a word, anger, policy, inhumanity, and prejudice, had, at 
this time, a planetary possession of the minds of most men, and destroyed in 
them that golden rule, of doing as they would be done unto.” 

In another passage Oates’s personal appearance is thus described “ He was 
a low man, of an ill cut, very short neck, and his visage and features were 
most particular. His mouth was the center of his face ; and a compass there 
would sweep his nose, forehead, and chin, within the perimeter. Cave q^ios 
ipse Deus notavit. In a word, he was a most consummate cheat, blasphemer, 
vicious, perjured, impudent, and saucy, foul-mouth’d wretch; and were it not 
for the truth of history, and the great emotions in the public he was the cause 
of, not fit (so little deserving) to be remembered. ’ 

Note P.— Narratives op the Plot. 

There is no more odious feature of this detestable plot than that the for- 
sw’orn witnesses by whose oaths the fraud was supported, claimed a sort of 
literary interest in' their owm fabrications by publications under such titles as 
the following : “ A narrative and impartial discovery of the horrid Popish Plot, 
carried on for burning and destroying the cities of London and Westminster, 
with their suburbs, setting forth the several councils, orders, and resolutions 
of the Jesuits concerning the same, by (a person so and so named), lately en- 
gaged in that horrid design, and one of the Popish committee for carrying on 
such fires.” 

At any other period, it would have appeared equally unjust and illegal to 
poison the public mind with stuff of this kind, before the witnesses had made 
their depositions in open court. But in this moment of frenzy, every thing 
which could confirm the existence of these senseless delusions, was eagerly 
listened to; and whatever seemed to infer doubt of the witnesses, or hesita- 
tion concerning the existence of the plot, w^as a stifling, strangling, or under- 
valuing the discovery of the gi’and conspiracy. In short, as expressed by 
Drydep, 

“ ’Twas worse than plotting, to suspect the plot,” 

Note Q.— Richard Ganlesse. 

It will be afterward found, that in the supposed Richard Ganlesse, is first in- 
troduced into the story the detestable Edward Christian, a character with as 
few redeeming good qualities as the author's too prolific pencil has ever at- 
tempted to draw. He is a mere creature of the imagination ; and although 
he may receive some dignity of character from his talents, energy, and influ- 
ence over others, he is, in other respects, a moral monsier, since even his af- 
fection for his brother, and resentment of his death, are grounded on vin- 
dictive feelings, which scruple at no means, even the foulest, for their gratifi- 
cation. The author will be readily believed w'hen he affirms, that no original 
of the present times, or those which preceded them, has given the outline for 
a character so odious. The personage is a mere fancy piece. In particular, 
the author disclaims all allusion to a gentleman named Edward Christian, 
who actually existed during those troublesome times, was brother of William 
Christian, the Dempster, and died in prison in the Isle of Man. With this un- 
fortunate gentleman the character in the novel has not the slightest connec- 
tion, nor do the incidents of their lives in any respect agree. There existed, as 
already stated, an Edward Christian of the period, who was capable of very 
bad things, since he was a companion and associate of the robber Thomas 
Blood, and convicted along with him of a conspiracy against the celebrated 


460 


NOTES TO PEYEEIL OF THE PEAK. 

Duke of Buckingham. This character was probably not unlike that of his name- 
sake in the novel, at least the feats ascribed to him are hand aliena a Sccevp- 
Ice studiis. But Mr. Christian of Unwin, if there existed a rogue of his narne 
during that period of general corruption, has the more right to have him dis- 
tinguished from his unfortunate relative, who died in prison before the period 
mentioned. 

Note R.-Cutlar MacCuleoch.* 

This alludes to a singular custom of the inhabitants of the northern coast of 
the Isle of ]\Ian, wlio used of old to eat the sodden meat before they supped 
the brotli, lest, it is said, they should be deprived of the more substantial part 
of the meal, if they waited to eat it at the second course. 

They account for this anomaly in the following manner About the com- 
mencement of the sixteenth century, the Earl of Derby, being a fiery 3 ’ouug 
chief, fond of war and honor, made a furious inroad, with all his forces, into 
the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, and committed great ravages, still remem- 
bered in Manx song. Mr. Train, with his usual kindness, sent me the follow- 
ing literal translation of the verses: 

“ There came Thomas Derby, born king. 

He it was who wore the golden crupper ; 

There was not one loi’d in wide England itself, 

With so many vassels as he had. 

“ On Scottishmen he avenged himself; 

He went over to Kirkcudbright, 

And there made such havoc of houses, 

That some are uninhabitable to this day. 

“ Was not that fair in a youth. 

To avenge himself on his foe while he was so young, 

Before his beard had grown around his mouth. 

And to bring home his men in safety?” 

This incursion of the Earl with the golden crupper was severely revenged. 
The gentlemen of the name of MabCulloch, a clan then and now powerful 
in Gallowky, had at their head, at the time, a chief of courage and activity, 
named Cutlar MacCulloch. He was an excellent seaman, and speedily 
equipped a predatory flotilla, with which he made repeated descents on the 
northern shores of the Isle of Man. the dominions of the Earl of Derby, carrj’- 
ing off all that was not, in the border phi’ase, too hot or too heavj'. 

The following is the deposition of John Machariotic concerning the losses 
be had suffered by this sea-king and his Galloway men. It is dated at Peel 
Castle: — “Taken bj’Collard MacCulloch and his men by wrongous spoliation, 
Twa box beddes and aykin burdes, i c lathe, a feder bouster, a cote of Mailzie, 
a mete burde, two kystis, five barrels, a gjde-fat, xx pipes, twa gunys, three 
bolls of malt, a querne of rosate of vi stane, certain petes, [peats,] extending 
to i c load, viii bolls of threschit corn, xii unthraschin, and xl knowte.” — 
Challerson, p. 47, edit. London, 1653. 

This active rover rendered his name so formidable, that the custom of eat- 
ing the meat before the broth was introduced by the islanders whose festivals 
he often interrupted, The 3 ’ also remembered him in their prayers and graces ; 
as, 

“ God keep the house and all within. 

From Cut MacCulloch and his kin 

or, as I have heard it recited, 

“ God keep the good corn, and the sheep, and the bullock. 

From Satan, from sin, and from Cutlar MacCulloch.” 

It is said to have chanced, as the master of the house had uttered one of 
these popular benisons, that Cutlar in person entered the habitation with this 
reply : 

“ Gudeman, gudeman,ye pray too late, 

MacCulloch’s ships are at the Yaite.” 

The Yaite is a well-known landing place on the north side of the Isle of Man. 

This redoubted corsair is, I believe, now represented by the chief of the 
name, James MacCulloch, Esq., of Ardwall, the author’s friend and near con- 
nection. 


461 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

Note S.— Correspondence op Coleman. 

Tlie unfortunate Coleman, executed for the Popish Plot, was secretary to 
tlie late Duchess of York, and had been a correspondent of the French King’s 
confessor, Pere la Chaise, Their correspondence was seized, and although 
the papers contained nothing to confirm the monstrous fictions of the accusers, 
yet thex’e was a great deal to show that he and other zealous Catholics anx- 
iousl}’^ sought for a*id desired to find the means to bring back England to the 
faith of Rome. “It is certain,” says Hume, “ that the restless and entei’pris- 
ing spirit of the Catholic Church, particularly of the Jesuits, merits attention, 
and is in some degree dangerous to every other communion. Such zeal of 
proselytism actuates that sect, that its missionaries have penetrated into 
every region of the globe, and in one sense there is a Popish plot continually 
carrying on against all states, Protestant, Pagan, and Mahometan.”— .&is- 
tory of England, vol. vii, p. 72, edit. 1797. 

Note T.— Funeral Scene op Sir Edmond-sbury Godprey. 

This solemnity is specially mentioned by North: “The crowd w'as prodig- 
ious. both at the procession and in and about the church, and so heated, that 
anything called Papist, Avere it a cat or a dog, had probably gone to pieces in 
a moment. The Catholics all kept close in their houses and lodgings, thinking 
it a good compensation to be safe there, so^ar w^ere they from acting violently 
at that time. But there was all that which upheld among the common people 
an artificial fright, so that every one almost fancied a Popish knife just at his 
throat; and at the sermon, beside the preacher, tivo thumping divines 
stood upright in the pulpit, to guard him from being killed, while he was 
preaching, by the Papists. I did not see this spectre, but was credibly told by 
some that affirmed that they did see it, and I never met with any that did 
contradict it. A most portentous spectacle, sure, three parsons in one pulpit! 
Enough of itself, on a less occasion, to excite terror in the audience. The 
like, I guess, was never seen before, and probably will never be seen again ; 
and it had not been so now, as is most evident, biit for some stratagem found- 
ed upon the impetuosity of the mob.” — Examen, p. 104. 

It may be, however, remarked, that the singular circumstance of Sir Ed- 
mondsbury Godfrey, the justice before whom Oates had made his deposition, 
being found murdered, was the incideYit upon which most men relied as com- 
plete proof of the existence of the plot. As he was believed to have lost his 
life by the Papists, for having taken Oates’s deposition, the panic spread 
with inconceivable rapidity, and every species of horror was apprehended — 
every report, the more absurd the better, eagerly listened to and believed. 
Whether this unfortunate gentleman lost his life by Papist or Protestant, by 
private enemies, or by his own hand (for he was a low-spirited and melan- 
choly man), will probably never be discovered. 

Note U.— First Check to the Plot. 

The first check received by Doctor Oates and his colleagues in the task of 
supporting the Plot by their testimony. Avas in this manner After a good 
deaf of prevarication, the prime Avitness at length made a direct charge 
against Sir George Wakeman, the Queen’s physician, of an attempt to poison 
the King, and even connected the Queen Avith this accusation. Avhom he rep- 
resented as Wakeman’s accomplice. This last piece of effrontery recalled the 
King to some generous sentiments. “ The villains,” said Charles, “ think I 
am tired of my Avife; but they shall find I will not permit an innocent woman 
to be persecuted.” Scroggs, the Lord Chief-Justice, accordingly received 
instructions to be favorable to the accused; and, for the first time, he Avas so. 
Wakeman Avas acquitted, but thought it more for his safety to retire abroad. 
His acquittal, hoAA^ever, indicated a turn of the tide, Avhich had so long set 
in favor of the Plot, and of the Avitnesses by Avhom it had hitherto been sup- 
ported. 

Note X.— Employment op Assassins in England. 

It was the unworthy distinction of men of Avit and honor about towm, to re- 
venge their own quarrels Avith inferior persons b}'^ the hands of bravoes. Even 
in the days of chivalry, the knights, as’ may be learned from Don Quixote, 
turned over to the chastisement of their squires such adversaries as Avere not 
dubbed; and thus it was not unusual for men of quality in Charles H.’s 
time, to avenge their wrongs by means of private assassination. Rochester 
Avrites composedly concerning a .satire imputed to Dryden, but in reality com- 
posed by Mulgrave. “If he falls upon me with the blunt, which is his very 


4C2 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 

good weapon in wit, I will forgive him, if you please, and leave the repartee 
to Black Will with a cudgel.” And, in. conformitj^ with this cowardly and 
brutal intimation, that distinguished poet was waylaid and beaten severely in 
Rose Street, Covent Garden, by ruffians who could not be discovered, but 
whom all concluded to be the agents of Rochester’s mean revenge. 

Note Y.—Earl op Arlington. 

Rennet, Earl of Arlington, was one of Charles’s most attached courtiers dur- 
ing liis exile. After the Restoration, he was employed in the ministry, and 
the name of Bennet supplies its initial B to the celebrated word Cabal. But 
the King was supposed to have lost respect for him ; and several persons at 
court took the liberty to mimic his pei’son and behavior, which was stiff and 
formal. Thus it was a common jest for some courtier to put a black patch on 
his nose, and strut about with a white staff in his hand, to make the King 
merry. But, notwithstanding, he retained his office of Lord Chamberlain and 
his seat in the Privy Council, till his death in 1685. 

Note Z.— Letter from the Dead to the Living. 

The application of the very respectable old English name of Jerningham to 
the valet-de-chambre of the Duke of Buckingham, has proved of force suf- 
ficient to wake the resentment of the dead, who had in early days won that 
illustrious surname— for the author received by post the following expostula- 
tion on the subject : — 

” To the learned Cleric and worshipfid Knight, Sir Walter Scott, give these : 

“ Mye mortal frame has long since mouldered into dust, and the young 
saplinge that was planted on the daye of mye funeral, is now a doddered oak, 
standiuge hard bye the mansion of the familie. The' windes doe whistle thro’ 
its leaves, moaniuge among its moss-covered branches, and awakeninge in the 
soules of my descendants, that pensive melancholy which leads back to the 
contemplating those that ax-e gone 1— I, who Avas once the courtly dame, that 
held high revelry in these gaye bowers, am now light as the blast! 

“ If I essaye, from v^ain affection, to make my name be thought of by pro- 
ducing the noise of rustlingesilkes, or the sIoav tread of a midnight foot along 
the chapel fioor, alas ! I only seare the simple maidens, and my wearie efforts 
(how Avearie none alive can tell) are derided and jeei*ed at by my knightlie de- 
scendants. Once indeed— but it boots not to burthen your ear with this par- 
ticular, nor why 1 am still sad and aching, between earth and heaven ! Kuoav 
only, that I still Avalk this place (as mye playmate, your great-grandmother, 
does hers). I sit in my Avonted chair, tho’ now it stands in a dusty garret. I 
fx’equent my ladye’s room, and I have hushed her wailinge babes, when all 
the cunning of tlie nurse has failed. I sit at the Avindbw whei*e so long a suc- 
cession of honorable dames have pi'esided their daye, and are passed away! 
But in the change that centuries brought, honor and truth have remained; 
and, as adherents to King HaiTy’s eldest daughter, as true subjects to her suc- 
cessoi's, as faithful followers of the unfortunate Charles and his posteritie, 
and as loyal and attached servauntes of the present I'oyal stock, the' name of 
Jerningham has ever i*emained unsullied in lionor, and uncontaminated in 
aught unfitting its ancient knightlie origin. You, noble and learned sir, 
Avhose quill is as the trumpet arousinge the slumbei*inge soule to feelings of 
loftie chivalrie,— you. Sir Knight, Avho feel and doe honor to your noble 
lineage, Avherefore did you say, in your chronicle or historie of the bi’ave 
knight, Peveril of the Peake, tliat my lord of Buckingham’s servaunte was a 
Jerningham ! ! ! a vile vai’let to a viler noble ! Many honorable families have, 
indeed, shot and spread from the parent stock into Avilde entangled mazes, 
and reached perchance beyond the confines of gentle blood ; but it so pleased 
Providence, that myeAvorshipful husband, good Sir Harry’s line, has flowed in 
one confined, but clear deep stream, down to my well-beloued son, tlie present 
Sir George Jerningham (by just claim Lorde Stafforde;) and if any of your 
coui'tly ancestors that hover round your bed, could speak, they would tell you 
that the Duke’s valet Avas not Jerningham, but Sayer or Sims. — Act as you 
shall think mete hex-eon, but defend the honoi'ed names of those Avhose cham- 
pion you so well deserve to be. J. Jerningham.” 

HaAung no mode of knoAving hoAV to reply to this ancient dignitary,! am 
compelled to lay the blame of my error upon wicked example, AA-hich has mis- 
led me: and to plead that I should never have been guilty of so great a mis- 
nomei-, but for the authority of one Oliver Goldsmith, who, in an elegant dia- 


NOTES TO PEVEKIL OF THE PEAK 


463 


logue between the Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs, 
makes the former assure Miss Skeggs as a fact, that the next morning my 
lord called out three times to his valet-de-chambre, “ Jernigan, Jernigan, Jer- 
nigan ! bring me my garters !” Some inaccurate recollection of this passage 
has occasioned the offense rendered, for which I make this imperfect, yet re- 
spectful apology. 

Note A A. —Silk Armor. 

Roger North gives us a ridiculous description of these warlike habiliments, 
when talking of the Whig Club in Fuller’s Rents : “ The conversation and ordi- 
nai'y discourse of the club was chiefly on the subject of bravery in defend- 
ing the cause of liberty and property, and what every Protestant Englishman 
ought to venture and do, rather than be overrun with Popery and slavery. 
There was much recommendation of silk armor and the prudence of being 
provided with it, against the time that Protestants were to be massacred; 
and accordingly there were abundance of these silken backs, breasts, and 
pots [i. e. head-pieces], made and sold, which were pretended to be pistol 
proof, in which any man dressed up was as safe as in a house; for it was im- 
possible any one could go to strike him for laughing, so ridiculous was the 
figure, as they say, of hogs in armor— an image of derision insensible but to 
the view, as I have had it [viz. that none can imagine without seeing it, as I 
have]. This was armor of defense, but our sparks were not altogether so 
tame as to carry their provisions no further ; for truly they intended to be as- 
sailants upon fair occasion, and had for that end recommended to them a 
certain pocket weapon, which, for its design and efficacy, had the honor to be 
called a Protestant flail. It was for street and crowd woi’k, and the instru- 
ment, lurking perdue in a coat-pocket, might readily sally out to execution, 
and by clearing a great hall, piazza, or so, carry an election, by a choice way 
of polling called ‘ knocking down.’ The handle resembled a farrier’s blood- 
stick, and the fall was joined to the end by a strong nervous ligature, that in 
its swung fell short of the hand, and was made of lignumvitoe, or rather, as 
the poet termed it, mortis." — Examen, p. 173. 

This last weapon will remind the reader of the blood-stick so cruelly used, as 
was alleged, in a murder committed in England some years ago, and for a 
participation in which two persons were tried and acquitted at the assizes of 
autumn, 1830. 

Note BB.— Geoffrey Hudson. 

Geoffrey or Jeffrey Hudson is often mentioned in anecdotes of Charles I.’s 
time. His first appearance at court was his being presented, as mentioned in 
the text, an a pie at an entertainment given by the Duke of Buckingham to 
Charles I. and Henrietta Maria. Upon the same occasion, the Duke pre- 
sented the tenant of the pasty to the Queen, who retained him as her page. 
When about eight years or age, he was but eighteen or tw'enty inches high ; 
and remained stationary at that stature till he was thirty years old, w'hen he 
grew to the height of three feet nine inches, and there stopped. 

This singular lusus natures was trusted in some negotiations of consequence. 
He went to France to fetch over a midwife to his mistress, Henrietta Maria. 
On his return, he was taken by Dunkirk privateers, ivhen he lost many valu- 
able presents sent to the Queen from France, and about L.2500 of his own. 
Sir William Davenant makes a real or supposed combat between the dwarf 
and a turkey-cock, the subject of a poem called Jeffreidos. The scene is laid 
at Dunkirk, where, as the satire concludes— 

“ Jeffrey strait was throwm, wdien, faint and weak. 

The cruel fowl assaults him with his beak. 

A lady midwife now he there by chance 
Espied, that came along with him from France. 

‘ A heart brought up in war, that ne’er before 
This time could bow,’ he said, ‘ doth not implore 
Thou, that delivered hast so many, be 
So kind of nature as deliver me.’ ” 

We are not acquainted how far Jeffrey resented this lampoon. But we are 
assured he was a consequential personage, and endured with little temper the 
teasing of the domestics and courtiers, and had many squabbles with the 
King’s gigantic porter. 

The fatal duel with Mr. Crofts actually took place, as mentioned m the 
text. It happened in France. The poor dwarf had also the misfortune to be 
taken prisoner by a Turkish pirate. He was, however, probably soon set at 


464 


NOTES TO PEVEKIL OE THE PEAK, 


liberty, for Hudson was a captain for the King during the civil war. In 1644, 
the dwarf attended his royal mistress to France. The Restoration recalled 
him, with other royalists, to England. But this poor being, who received, it 
would seem, hard measure both from nature and fortune, was not doomed to 
close his days in peace. Poor Jeffrey, upon some suspicion respecting the 
Popish Plot, was taken up in 1682, and confined in the Gatehouse prison, West- 
minster, where he ended his life in the sixty-third year of his age. 

Jeffrey Hudson has been immortalized by the brush of Vandyke, and his 
clothes are said to be preserved as articles of curiosity in Sir Hans Sloan’s 
Museum. 

Note CC.— Colonel Blood’s Narrative. 

Of Blood’s Narrative, Roger North takes the following notice “ There was 

another sham plot of one Netterville. And here the good Colonel Blood, 

that stole the Duke of Ormond, and, if a timely rescue had not come in, had 
hanged him at Tyburn, and afterward stole the crown, though he was not so 
happy as to carry it off ; no player at small games, he, even he, the virtuous 
Colonel, as this sham plot says, was to have been destroyed by the Papists. It 
seems these Papists would let no eminent Protestant be safe. But some 
amends were made to the Colonel by sale of the narrative licensed Thomas 
Blood. It would have been strange if so much mischief were stirring, and he 
had not come in for a snack.”— E’gamen, edit. 1711, p. 311. 

Note DD.— Nkll Gwyn. 

In Evelyn’s Memoirs is the following curious passage respecting Nell Gwyn, 
who is hinted at in the text;— “I walked with him [King Charles II.] through 
Saint James Park to the garden, where 1 both saw and heard a very familiar 
discourse between . . . [the King] and Mrs. Nelly, as they called her, an inti- 
mate commedian, she looking out of her garden on a terrace at the top of the 
wall, and [the King] standing on the green walk under it. I was heartily sorry 
at this scene.”— Evelyn’s Memoirs, vol. i. p. 413. 

Note EE.— Colonel Blood. 

The conspirator Blood even fought or made his way into good society, and 
sat at good men’s feasts. Evelyn’s Diary bears, 10th May, 1671, — “ Dined at 
Mr. Treasurer’s, where dined Monsieur de Grammont and several Fx'ench 
noblemen, and one Blood, that impudent, bold fellow, that had not long ago 
attempted to steal tho Imperial crown itself out of the Tower, pretending curi- 
osity of seeing the Regalia, when, stabbing the keeper, though not mortally, he 
boldly went away with it through all the guards, taken only by the acci- 
dent of his horse falling down. How he came to be pardoned, and even re- 
ceived into favor, not only after this, but several other exploits almost as dar- 
ing, both in Ireland and here, I could never come to understand. Some 
believed he became a spy of several parties, being well with the sectaries and 
enthusiasts, and did his Majesty’s service that way, which none alive could do 
so well as he. But it Avas certainly, as the boldest attempt, so the only treason 
of the sort that was ever pardoned. The man had not only a daring, but a 
villainous, unmerciful look, a false countenance, but very well spoken and 
dangerously insinuating.” — Evelyn’s Memoirs, vol. i. p. 413. 

This is one of the many occasions on which we might make curious remarks 
on the disregard of our forefathers for appearances, even in the regulation of 
society. What should we think of a Lord of the Treasury, who, to make up a 
party of French nobles and English gentlemen of condition, should invite as a 
guest Barrington or Major Semple, or any well-known chevalier d'industrie ? 
Yet Eveljm does not seem to have been shocked at the man being brought into 
society, but only at his remaining unhanged. 

Note FF.— Fuller’s Rents. 

The place of meeting of the Green Ribbon Club. “ Their place of meeting,” 
says Roger North, ” was in a sort of Carrefour at Chancery Lane, in a center 
of business and company most proper for .such anglers of fools. The house 
was double balconied m front, as may yet be seen, for the clubbers to issue 
foi-th in fresco, with hats and no perukes, pipes in their mouths, merry faces, 
and dilated throats for vocal encouragement of the canaglia below on usual 
and unusual occasions.” 

Note GG.— The Sheriff of London. 

It can hardly be forgotten that one of the great difficulties of Charles H ’s 
reign was to obtain for the crown the power of choosing the sheriffs of Lon- 


KOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


465 


don. Roger North gives a lively account of his brother, Sir Dudley North, who 
agreed to serve for the court. “I omit the share he had in composing the 
tumults about burning the Pope, because that is accounted for in the Examen, 
and the Life of the Lord Keeper North. Neither is there occasion to say any- 
thing of the rise and discovery of the Rye Plot, for the same reason. Nor is 
my subject much concerned with this latter, farther than that the conspirators 
had taken especial care of Sir Dudley North. For he was one of those who, 
if they had succeeded, was to have been knocked on the head, and his skin to 
be stuffed, and hung up in Guildhall. But, all that apart, he reckoned it a 
great unhappiness, that so many trials for high treason, and executions, should 
happen in his year. However, in these affairs, the sheriffs were passive; for 
all I'eturus of panels, and other despatches of the law, were issued and done 
by under-officers; which w'as a fair screen for them. They attended at the 
trials and executions, to coerce the crowds, and keep order, which was enough 
for them to do. I have heard Sir Dudley North say, that, striking with his 
cane, he wondered to see what blows his countrymen would take upon their 
bare heads, and never look up at it. And indeed, nothing can match the zeal 
of the common people to see executions. The worst grievance was the execu- 
tioner coming to him for orders, touching the abscinded members, and to know 
where to dispose of them. Once, while he was abroad, a cart, with some of 
them, came into the courtyard of his house, and frightened his lady almost 
out of her wits ; and she could never be reconciled to the dog hangman’s say- 
ing he came to speak with his master. These are inconveniences that attend 
the stations of public magistracy, and are necessary to be borne with, as magis- 
tracy itself is necessaiy. I have now no more to say of any incidents during 
the shrievalty; but that, at the year’s end, he delivered up his charges to his 
successors in like manner as he had received them from his predecessor; and, 
having reinstated his family, he lived well and easy at his own house, as he 
did before these disturbances put him out of order.” 

Note HH.— Scene— Deaf and Dumb Vassal. 

This little piece of superstition w^as suggested by the following incident. 
The Author of Waverley happened to be standing by with other gentlemen, 
while the captain of the Selkirk Yeomanry was purchasing a horse for the 
use of his trumpeter. The animal offered was a handsome one, and neither 
the officer, who was an excellent jockey, nor any one present, could see any 
imperfection in wind or limb. But a person happened to pass, who was asked 
to give an opinion. This man was called Blind Willie, who drove a small trade 
in cattle and horses, and what seemed as extraordinary, in watches, notwith- 
standing his having been born blind. He was accounted to possess a rare 
judgment in tliese subjects of traffic. So soon as he had examined the horse 
in question, he immediately pronounced it to have something of his own com- 
plaint, and in plain words, stated it to be blind, or verging upon that imper- 
fection, which was found to be the case on close examination. None present 
had suspected this fault in the animal ; which is not wonderful, considering 
that it may frequently exist, without any appearance in the organ affected. 
Blind Willie, being asked how he made a discovery imperceptible to so many 
gentlemen who had their eyesight, explained, that after feeling the horse’s 
limbs, he laid one hand on its heart, and drew the other briskly across the ani- 
mal’s eyes, when finding no increase of pulsation, in consequence of the latter 
motion, he had come to the conclusion that the horse must be blind. 

Note II.— History of Colonel Thomas Blood. 

This person, who was capable of framing and carrying into execution the 
most desperate ehterprises, was one of those extraordinary characters, who 
can only arise amid the bloodshed, confusion, destruction of morality „and 
wide-spreading violence, which take place during civil war. The arrangement 
of the present volume admitting of a lengthened digression, we cannot, per- 
haps, enter upon a subject more extraordinary or entertaining than the history 
of this notorious despei'ado, who exhibited all the elements of a most accom- 
plished ruffian. As the account of these adventures is scattered in various and 
scarce publications, it will probably be a service to the reader to bring the 
most remarkable of them under his eye, in a simultaneous point of view. 

Blood’s father is reported to have been a blacksmith ; but this was only a 
disparaging mode of describing a person who had a concern in iron works, 
and had thus acquired independence. He entered early in life into the Civil 
War, served as lieutenant in the Parliament forces, and was put by Henry 
Cromwell, Lord Deputy of Ireland, into the commission of the peace, when he 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


460 

was scarcely two-and-twenty. This outset in life decided his political party 
forever; and, however unfit the principles of such a man rendered him for the 
society of those who professed a rigidity of religion and morals, so useful was 
Blood’s rapidity of invention, and so well was he known, that he was held 
capable of framing with sagacity, and conducting with skill, the most desper- 
ate undertakings, and, in a turbulent time, was allowed to associa,te with the 
non-jurors, who affected a peculiar austerity of conduct and sentiments. In 
1663, the Act of Settlement in Ireland, and the proceedings thereupon, affected 
Blood deeply in his fortune, and from that moment he appears to have nour- 
ished the most inveterate hatred to the Duke of Ormond, the Lord Lieutenant 
of Ireland, whom he considered as the author of the measure under which he 
suffered. There were at this time many malcontents of the same party with 
himself, so that Lieutenant Blood, as the most daring among them, was able to 
put himself at the head of a conspiracy which had for its purpose the exciting 
a general insurrection, and, as a preliminary step, the surprising of the castle 
of Dublin, The means proposed for the last purpose, which was to be the 
prelude to the rising, augured the desperation of the person by whom it was 
contrived, and yet might probably have succeeded from its very boldness. A 
declaration was drawn up by the hand of Blood himself, calling upon all per- 
sons to take arms for the liberty of the subject, and the restoration of the Sol- 
emn League and Covenant. For the surprise of the castle it was provided 
that several persons, with petitions in their hands, were to wait within the 
walls, as if they stayed to present them to the Lord Lieutenant, while about 
fourscore of the old daring disbanded soldiers were to remain on the outside, 
dressed like carpenters, smiths, shoemakers, and other ordinary mechanics. 
As soon as the Lord Lieutenant went in, a baker was to pass by the main 
guard with a large basket of white bread on his back. By making a false step 
he was to throw down his burden, which might create a scramble among the 
soldiers, and offer the fourscore men before mentioned an opportunity of dis- 
arming them', wiiile the others with petitions in their hands secured all within ; 
and being once master of the castle and the Duke of Ormond’s person, they 
were to publish their declaration. But some of the principal conspirators 
were apprehended about twelve hours before the time appointed for the exe- 
cution of the design, in which no less than seven members of the House of 
Commons (for the Parliament of Ireland was then sitting) were concerned. 
Leckie, a minister, the brother-in-law of Blood, was, with several others, tried, 
condemned, and executed. Blood effected his escape, but was still so much 
the object of public apprehension, that a rumor having arisen during Leckie’s 
execution, that Major Blood was at hand with a party to rescue the prisoner, 
every one of the guards, and the executioner himself, shifted for themselves, 
leaving Leckie, with the halter about his neck, standing alone under the gal- 
lows ; but, as no rescue appeared, the sheriff-officers returned to their duty, 
and the criminal was executed. Meantime, Blood retired among the mount- 
ains of Ireland, where he herded alternately with fanatics and Papists, pro- 
vided only they were discontented with the government. There Avere few per- 
sons better acquainted with the intrigues of the time than this active partisan, 
who was alternately Quaker, Anabaptist, or Catholic, but always a rebel and 
revolutionist; he shifted from place to place, and from kingdom to kingdom ; 
became known to the Admiral de Ruyter, and was the soul of every desper- 
ate plot. 

In particular, about 1665, Mr. Blood was one of a revolutionary committee, 
or secret council, which continued its sittings, notwithstanding that govern- 
ment knew of its meetings. For their security, they had about thirty stout 
fellow's posted around the place where they met in the nature of a corps de 
garde. It fell out, that two of the meinbers of the council, to save themselves, 
and perhaps for the sake of a rew'ara, betrayed all their transactions to the 
ministry, which Mr. Blood soon suspected, and iji a short time got to the bot- 
tom of the whole affair. He appointed these two persons to meet him at a 
tavern in [the city w'here he had his guard read}', who secured them without 
any noise, and carried them to a private place provided for the purpose, w'here 
he called a kind of court-martial, before w'hom they were tried, found guiltj', 
and sentenced to be shot tw'o days after in the same place. When the time 
appointed came, they were bi’ought out, and all the necessary preparations 
made for putting the sentence, in execution ; and the poor men, seeing no 
hopes of escape, disposed themselves to suffer as well as they could. At this 
critical juncture, Mr. Blood was graciously pleased to grant them his pardon, 
and at the same time advised them to go to their new master, tell him all that 
had happened, and .request him, in the name of their old confederates, to be 
as favorable to such of them as should at any time stand in need of his mercy. 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


467 

Whether these imfortiinate people carried Mr. Blood’s message to the King, 
does not anywhere appear. It is, however, certain, that not long after the 
whole conspiracy was discovered ; in consequence of which, on the 25th of 
April, 1666, Col. John Rathbone, and some otlier officers of the late disbanded 
army, were tried and convicted at the Old Bailey for a plot to surprise the 
Tower, and to kill General Monk. 

After his concern with this desperate conclave, who were chiefly fanatics 
and Fifth-Monarchy men. Blood exchanged the scene for Scotland, where he 
mingled among the Cameronians, and must have been a most acceptable asso- 
ciate to John Balfour of Burley, or any other who joined the insurgents more 
out of spleen or desire of plunder, than from religious motives. The writers 
of the sect seem to have thought his name a discredit, or perhaps did not know 
it; nevertheless it is affirmed in a pamphlet written by a person who seems to 
have been well acquainted with the incidents of his life, that he shared the 
dangers of the defeat at Pentland Hills, 27th November, 1666, in which the 
Cameronians were totally routed. After the engagement, he found his way 
again to Ireland, but w^as hunted out of Ulster by Lord Dungannon, who pur- 
sued him very closely. On his return to England, he made himself again 
notorious by an exploit, of wffiich the very singular particulars are contained 
in the pamphlet already mentioned.* The narrative runs as follows : — “Among 
the persons apprehended for the late fanatic conspiracy, was one Captain 
3Iason, a person for whom Mr. Blood had a particular affection and friendship. 
This person was to be removed from London to one of the northern counties, 
in order to his trial at the assizes; and to that intent was sent down with eight 
of the Duke's troop to guard him, being reckoned to be a person bold and 
courageous. Mr. Blood having notice of this journey, resolves by the w^ay to 
rescue his friend. The prisoner and his guard went away in the morning, and 
Mr. Blood having made choice of three more of his acquaintance, set for- 
w'ard the .same day at night, without boots, upon small horses, and their pis- 
tols in their trousers, to prevent suspicion. But opportunities are not so easily 
had, neither were ail places convenient, so that the convoy and their prisoner 
were gone a good way beyond Newark, before Mr. Blood and his friends 
had any scent of their prisoner. At one place they set a sentinel to watch 
his coming by; but whether it w'as out of fear, or that the pei’son was tired 
with a tedious expectation, the sentinel brought them no tidings either of 
the prisoner or his guard, insomuch that Mr. Blood and his companions began 
to think their friend so far before them upon the road, that it would be in vain 
to follow him. Yet not willing to give over an enterprise so generously under- 
taken, upon Mr. Blood’s encouragement, they rode on, though despairing of suc- 
cess, till .finding it grow toward evening, and meeting with a convenient inn 
upon the road, in a small village not far from Doncaster, they resolved to lie 
there all night, and return for London the next morning. In that inn thev 
had not sat long in a room next the street, condoling among themselves the ill 
success of such a tedious journe 5 ’', and the misfortune of their friend, be- 
fore the convoy came thundering up to the door of the said inn w'ith their 
prisoner. Captain Mason having made choice of that inn, as being best 
known to him, to give his guardians the refreshment of a dozen of drink. 
There Mr. Blood, unseen, had a full view of his friend, and of the persons he 
had to deal with. He had bespoken a small supper, which Avas at the 
fire, so that he had but very little time for consultation, finding that Cap- 
tain Mason’s party did not intend to alight. On this account he only gave 
general directions to his associates to follow his example in whatever they 
saw him do. In haste, therefore, they called for their horses, and threw down 
their money for their reckoning, telling the Avoman of the house, that since 
they had met A\dth such good company, they were resolved to go forward. 
Captain Mason went off first upon a sorry beast, and with him the commander 
of the party and four more : the rest staid behind to make an end of their 
liquor. Then avv^ay marched one more single, and in a very small time after, 
the last two. By this time, Mr. Blood and one of his friends being horsed, 
followed the two that were hindmost, and soon overtook them. These four 
rode some little time together, Mr. Blood on the right hand of the two soldiers, 
and his friend on the left. But upon a sudden, Mr. Blood laid hold of the reins 
of the horse next him, while his friend, in observation to his directions, did the 
same on the other hand ; and having presently by surprise dismounted the sol- 
diers, pulled off their bridles, and sent their horses to pick their grass where 
they pleased. These tAvo being thus made sure of, Mr. Blood pursues his 
game, intending to have reached the single Hooper; but he being got to the 


* Remarks on the Life of the famed Mr. Blood. Loudon, 1680. Folio, 


468 NOTES TO rEYERIL OF THE PEAK. 


rest of Ill's fellows, now reduced to six, and a barber of York, that traveled in 
their company, Mr. Blood made .up, heads the whole party, and stops them ; of 
which some of the foremost, looking upon him to be either drunk or mad, 
thought the rebuke of a switch to be a sufficient chastisement of such a rash 
presumption which they exercised with more contempt than fury, till, by the 
rudeness of his complimeuts in return, he gave them to understand he was 
not in jest, but in ver}^ good earnest. He was soon seconded by his friend that 
was with him in his first exploit; but there had been several rough blows dealt 
between the unequal number of six to two, before Mr. Blood's two other 
friends came up to their assistance; nay, I may safely say six to two; for the 
barber of York, whether out of his natural propensity to the sport, or that his 
pot-valiantness had made him so generous as to help his fellow'-travelers, would 
needs shew his valor at the beginning of the fray ; but better had he been at 
the latter end of a feast; for though he shewed his prudence to take the 
stronger side, as he guessed by the number, yet because he would take no 
warning, which was often given him, not to put himself to the hazard of losing 
a guitar-finger by meddling in a business that nothing concerned him, he lost 
his life, as they were forced to dispatch him in the first place, for giving them 
a needless trouble. The barber, being become an useless instrument, and the 
other of Mr. Blood’s friends being come up, the skirmish began to be very 
smait, the four assailants having singled out their champions as fairly and 
equally as they could. All this while. Captain Mason, being rode before upon 
his thirty-shilling steed, wondering his guard came not with him, looked back, 
and observing a combustion, and that they were altogether by the ears, knew not 
what to think. He coujectured it at first to have been some intrigue upon him, 
as if the troopers had "a design to tempt him to an escape, which might after- 
ward prove more to his prejudice; just like cats, that, with regardless scorn, 
seem to give the distressed mouse all the liberty in the world to getaway out of 
theirpaws, but soon recover their prey again atone jump. Thereupon, unwilling 
to undergo the hazard of such a trial, he comes back, at which time, Mr. Blood 
cried out to him, ‘ Horse, horse, quickly !’ an alarm so amazing at first, that he 
could not believe it to be his friend's" voice when he heard it; but as the 
thoughts of military men are soon summoned together, and never hold Span- 
ish councils, the Captain presently settled his resolution, mounts the next 
horse that wanted a rider, and puts it in for a share of his own self-preserva- 
tion. In this bloody conflict, Mr. Blood was three times unhorsed, occasioned 
by his forgetfulness, as having omitted to new girt his saddle, which the ostler 
had unloosed upon the wadding at his first coming into the inn. Being then so 
often dismounted, and not knowing the reason, which the occasion would not 
give him leave to consider, he resolved to fight it out on foot; of which two of 
the' soldiers taking the advantage, singled him out, and drove him into a court- 
yard, where he made a stand with a full body, his sword in one hand, and his 
pistol in the other. One of the soldiers taking that advantage of his open 
body, shot him near the shoulder-blade of his pistol arm, at which time he had 
four other bullets in his body that he had received before ; which the soldier 
observing, flung his discharged pistol at him with that good aim and violence, 
that he hit him a stunning blow just under the forehead, upon the upper part 
of the nose between the eyes, which for the present so amazed him, that he 
gave himself over for a dead man ; yet resolving to give one sparring blow be- 
fore he expired, such is the strange provocation and success of despair, with 
one vigorous stroke of his sword, he brought his adversary with a vengeance 
from his horse, and laid him in a far worse condition than himself at his 
horse’s feet. At that time, full of anger and revenge, he was just going to 
make an end of his conquest, by giving him the fatal stab, but that in the ver3" 
nick of time. Captain Mason, having, by the help of his friends, done his busi- 
ness where they had fought, by the death of some, and the disabling of others 
that opposed them, came in. and bid him hold and spare the life of one that 
had been the civilest person to him upon the road— a fortunate piece of kind- 
ness in the one, and of gratitude in the other ; which Mr. Blood easil.v conde- 
scending to, by the joint assistance of the Captain, the other soldier was soon 
mastered, and the victoiy, after a sharp fight, that lasted above two hours, 
was at length completed. You may be sure the fight was well maintained on 
both sides, while two of the soldiers, besides the barber, were slain upon the 
place, three unhorsed, and the rest wmunded. And it was observable that 
though the encounter happened in a village, where a great number of people 
were spectators of the combat, yet none would adventure the rescue of either 
party, as not knowing which was in the wrong, or which in the right, and were 
therefore wary of being arbitrators in such a desperate contest, where they 
saw the reward of assistance to be nothing but present death. After the com- 


KOTES TO PEYERIL OE THE PEAK. 4G9 

bat was over, Mr. Blood and his friends divided themselves, and parted several 
ways.” 

Before he had engaged in this adventure, Blood had placed his wife and son 
in an apothecary’s shop at Rumford, under the name of Weston. He himself 
afterward affected to practice as a physician under that of Ayliffe, under 
which guise he remained concealed until his wounds were cured, and the hue 
and cry against him and his accomplices was somewhat abated. 

In the meantime, this extraordinary man, whose spirits toiled in framing the 
most daring enterprises, had devised a plot, which, as it respected the person 
at whom it was aimed, was of a much more ambitious character than that for 
the delivery of Mason. It had for its object the seizure of the person of the 
Duke of Ormond, his ancient enemy, in the streets of London. In this some 
have thought he only meant to gratify his resentment, while others suppose 
that he might hope to extort some important advantages by detaining his 
Grace in his hands as a prisoner. The Duke’s historian. Carte, gives the fol- 
lowing account of this extraordinary enterprise The Prince of Orange 
came this year (1670) into England, and being invited, on Dec. 6, to an enter- 
tainment in the city of London, his Grace attended him thither. As he was 
returning homewards in a dark night, and going up St. James Street, at the 
end of which, facing the palace, stood Clarendon House, where he then lived, 
he was attacked by Blood and five of his accomplices. The Duke always used 
to go attended with six footmen ; but as they were too heavy a load to ride 
upon a coach, he always had iron spikes behind it to keep them from getting 
up ; and continued this practice to his dying day, even after this attempt of 
assassination. These six footmen used to walk on both sides of the street, 
over against the coach; but by some contrivance or other, they were all 
stopped and out of the way, when the Duke was taken out of his coach by 
Blood and his son, and mounted on horseback behind one of the horsemen in 
his company. The coachman drove on to Clarendon House, ; nd told the por- 
ter that the Duke had been seized by two men, who had carried him down 
Piccadilly. The porter immediately ran that way, and Mr. James Clarke 
chancing to be at that time in the court of the house, followed with all pos- 
sible haste, having first alarmed the family, and ordered the servants to come 
after him as fast as they could. Blood, it seems, either to gratify the humor of 
his patron, who had set him upon this work, or to glut his own revenge by 
putting his Grace to the same ignominious death, which his accomplices in 
the treasonable design upon Dublin Castle had suffered, had taken a strong 
fancy into his head to hang the Duke at Tyburn. Nothing could have saved 
his Grace’s life, but that extravagant imagination and passion of the villain, 
who, leaving the Duke mounted and buckled to one of his comrades, rode on 
before, and (as is said) actually tied a rope to the gallows, and then rode back 
to see what was become of his accomplices, whom he met riding off in a great 
hurry. The horseman to whom the Duke was tied, was a pei-son of great 
strength, but being embarrassed by his Grace’s 'Struggling, could not advance 
as fast as he desired. He was, however, got a good way beyond Berkeley 
(now Devonshire) House, towards Knightsbridge, when the Duke, having got 
his foot under the man’s, unhorsed him, and they both fell down together in 
the mud, where they were struggling, when the porter and Mr. Clarke came 
up. The villain then disengaged himself, and seeing the neighborhood 
alarmed, and numbers of people running towards them, got on horseback, and 
having, with one of his comrades, fired tlieir pistols at the Duke (but missed 
him, as taking their aim in the dark, and in a hurry), rode off as fast as they 
could to save themselves. The Duke (now sixty years of age) was quite spent 
with struggling, so that when Mr. Clarke and the porter came up, they knew him 
rather by feeling his star, than by any sound of voice he could utter; and they 
were forced to carry him home, and lay him on a bed to recover his spirits. 
He received some wounds and bruises in the struggle, which confined him 
within doors for some days. The King, when he heard of this intended assas- 
sination of the Duke of Ormond, expressed a great resentment on that occa- 
sion, and issued out a proclamation for the discovery and apprehension of the 
miscreants concerned in the attempt.” 

Blood, however, lay concealed, and, with his usual success, escaped appre- 
hension. While thus lurking, he entertained and digested an exploit, evincing 
the same atrocity which had characterized the undertakings he had formerly 
been engaged in’; there was also to be traced in his new device sornething of 
that peculiar disposition which inclined him to be desirous of adding to the 
murder of the Duke of Ormond the singular infamy of putting him to death at 
Tyburn. With something of the same spirit, he now resolved to shew his con- 
tempt of monarchy, and all its symbols, by stealing the crown, scepter, and 


470 


NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 


other articles of the regalia out of the office in which they were deposited, and 
enriching himself and his needy associates with the produce of the spoils. 
This feat, by which Blood is now chiefly remembered, is, like all his transac- 
tions, marked with a daring strain of courage and duplicity, and like most of 
his undertakings, was very likely to have proved successful. John Bayley, 
Esq., in his History and Antiquities of the Tower of London, gives the follow- 
ing distinct account of this curious exploit. At this period. Sir Gilbert Talbot 
was Keeper, as it was called, at the Jewel House. 

“ It was soon after the appointment of Sir Gilbert Talbot, that the Regalia in 
the Tower first became objects of public inspection, which King Charles 
allowed in consequence of tlie reduction in the emoluments of the master’s 
office. The profits which arose from shewing the jewels to strangers. Sir Gil- 
bert assigned in lieu of a salary, to the person whom he had appointed to the 
care of them. This was an old confidential servant of his father’s, one Talbot 
Edwards, whose name is handed down to posterity as keeper of the regalia, 
when the notorious attempt to steal the crown was made in the year 1673; the 
following account of which is chiefly derived from a relation which Mr. Ed- 
wards himself made of the transaction. 

“ About three weeks before this audacious villain Blood made his attempt 
upon the crown, he came to the Tower in the habit of a parson, with a long 
cloak, cassock, and canonical girdle, accompanied by a woman, whom he 
called his wife. They desired to see the regalia, and, just as their wishes had 
been gratified, the lady feigned sudden indisposition; this called forth the kind 
offices of Mrs, Edwards, the keeper’s wife, who, having courteously invited her 
into their house to repose herself, she soon recovered, and on their departure, 
professed themselves thankful for this civility, A few days after. Blood came 
again, bringing a present to Mrs. Edwards, of four pairs of white gloves from 
his pretended wife ; and having thus begun the acquaintance, they made fre- 
quent visits to improve it. After a short respite of their compliments, the dis- 
guised ruffian returned again ; and in convei-sation with Mrs. Edwards, said 
that his wife could discourse of nothing but the kindness of those good people 
in the Tower— that she had long studied, and at length bethought herself of a 
handsome way of requital, "iou have, quoth he, a pretty young gentlewoman 
for your daughter, and I have a young nephew who has two or three hundred 
a-year in land, and is at my disposal. If your daughter be free, and you 
approve it. I’ll bring him here to see her, and we will endeavor to make it a 
match. This was easily assented to by old Mr. Edwards, who invited the par- 
son to dine with him on that day; he readily accepted the invitation; and 
taking upon him to say grace, performed it with great seeming devotion, and 
casting up his eyes, concluded it with a prayer for the King, Queen, and royal 
family. After dinner, he went up to see the rooms, and observing a handsome 
case of pistols hang there, expressed a great desire to buy them, to present 
to a young lord, who was his neighbor; a pretense by which he thought 
of disarming the house against the period intended for the execution of 
his design. At his departure, which was a canonical benediction of the good 
company, he appointed a day and hour to bring his young nephew to see his 
mistress, which was the very day that he made his daring attempt The good 
old gentleman had got up ready to receive his guest, and the daughter was in 
her best dress to entertain her expected lover; when, behold. Parson Blood, 
with three more, came to the jewel-house, all armed with rapier-blades in their 
canes, and every one a dagger, and a brace of pocket pistols. Two of his com- 
panions entered in with him, on pretence of seeing the crown, and the third 
stood at the door, as if to look after the young lady, a jewel of a more charm- 
ing description, but in reality as a watch. The daughter, who thought it not 
modest to come down till she was called, sent the maid to take a view of the 
company, and bring a descrijition of her gallant; and the servant, conceiving 
that he was the intended bridegroom who stood at the door, being the youngest 
of the party, returned to soothe the anxiety of her young mistress with the 
idea she had formed of his person. Blood then told Mr. Edwards that they 
would not go up stairs till his wife came, and desired him to .shew his friends 
the crown to pass the time till then ; and they had no sooner entered the room, 
and the door, as usual, shut, than a cloak was thrown over the old man’s 
head, and a gag put in his mouth. Thus secured, they told him that their 
resolution was to have the crown, globe, and scepter; and, if he would 
quietly submit to it, they would spare his life ; otherwise he was to expect 
no mercy. He thereupon endeavored to make all the noise he possibly could, 
to be heard above; they then knocked him down with a wooden mallet, and 
told him, that, if yet he would lie qixietly, they would spare his life ; but if not, 
upon his next attempt to discover them, they would kill him. Mr. Edwards, 


KOTES TO PEVEKIL OP THE PEAK, 


471 


however, according to his own account, was not intimidated by this threat, but 
strained himself to make the greater noise, and in consequence, received sev- 
eral more blows on the head with the mallet, and was stabbed in the belly; 
this again brought the poor old man to the ground, where he lay for some time 
in so senseless a state, that one of the villains pronounced him dead. Edwards 
had come a little to himself, and hearing this, lay quietly, conceiving it best to 
be thought so. The booty was now to be disposed of, and one of them, named 
Parrot, secreted the orb. Blood held the crown under his cloak; and the third 
was about to file the scepter in two, in order that it might be placed in a bag, 
brought for that purpose; but, fortunately, the son of Mr. Edwards, who had 
been in Flanders with Sir John Talbot, and on his landing in England, had ob- 
tained leave to come away post to visit his father, happened to arrive whilst 
this scene was acting ; and on-coming to the door, the person that stood senti- 
nel asked with whom he would speak ; to which he answered, that he belonged 
to the house; and, perceiving the person to be a stranger, told him that if he 
had any business with his father, tnat he would acquaint him with it, and so 
hastened up stairs to salute his friends. This unexpected accident spread con- 
fusion amongst the party, and they instantly decamped with the crown and 
orb, leaving the sceptqf yet unfiled. The aged keeper now raised himself upon 
his legs, forced the gag from his mouth, and cried, ‘ Treason! murder!’ which 
being heard by his daughter, who was, perhaps, anxiously expecting far other 
sounds, ran out and reiterated the cry. The alarm now’ became general, and 
young Edwards and his brother-in-law. Captain Beckman, ran after the con- 
spii-ators, whom a warder put hin^self in a position to stop, but Blood dis- 
charged a pistol at him, and he fell, although unhurt, and the thieves pro- 
ceeded safely to the next post, where one Sill, who had been a soldier under 
Cromwell, stood sentinel; but he offered no opposition, and they accordingly 
passed the drawbridge. Horses were waiting for them at St. Catherine’s gate ; 
and as they ran that way along the Tower wharf, they themselves cried out, 

‘ Stop the rogues !’ by which they passed on unsuspected, till Captain Beckman 
overtook them. At his head Blood fired another pistol, but missed him, and 
was seized. Under the cloak of this daring villain was found the crown, and, 
although he saw himself a prisoner, he had yet the impudence to struggle for 
his pre}'; and, when it was finally wrested from him, said, ‘ It was a gallant 
attempt, however unsuccessful; it was for a crown !’ Parrot, who had former- 
ly served under General Harrison, was also taken; but Hunt, Blood’s son-in- 
law, reached his horse and rode off, as did two other of the thieves; but he 
was soon afterward stopped, and likewise committed to custody. In this 
struggle and confusion, the great pearl, a large diamond, and several smaller 
stones, were lost from the crown ; but the two former, and some of the latter, 
were afterward found and restored; and the Balias ruby, broken off the 
scqj)ter, being found in Parrot’s pocket, nothing considerable was eventually 
missing. 

“ As soon as the prisoners were secured, young Edwards hastened to Sir 
Gilbert Talbot, who was then master and treasurer of the Jewel House, and 
gave him an account of the transaction. Sir Gilbert instantly went to the 
King, and acquainted his majesty with it; and his majesty commanded him to 
proceed forthwith to the Tower, to see how matters stood ; to take the exami- 
nation of Blood and the others ; and to return and report to him. Sir Gilbert 
accordingly went ; but the King in the meantime was persuaded by some about 
him, to hear the examination himself, and the prisoners were in consequence 
sent for to Whitehall; a circumstance which is supposed to have saved these 
daring wTetches from the gallows.” 

On his examination under such an atrocious charge. Blood audaciously re- 
plied, “ that he ■w'ould never betray an associate, or defend himself at the ex- 
pense of uttering a falsehood.” He even averred, perhaps, more than was 
true against himself, when he confessed that he had Jain concealed among the 
reeds for the purpose of killing the King with a carbine, while Charles was 
bathing; but he pretended that on this occasion his purpose was disconcerted 
by a secret awe,— appearing to verify the allegation in Shakespeare, “ There’s 
such divinity doth hedge a king, that treason can but peep to what it would, 
acts little of its will.” To this story, tjaie or false. Blood added a declaration 
that he was at the head of a numerous following, disbanded soldiers and 
others, who, from motives of religion, were determined to take the life of the 
King, as the only obstacle to their obtaining freedom of worship and liberty 
of conscience. These men, he said, ■would be determined, by his execution, to 

E ersist in the resolution of putting Charles to death ; whereas, he averred that, 
y sparing his life, the King might disarm a hundred poniai’ds directed against 
his own. This view of the case made a strong impression on Charles, whose 


472 NOTES TO PEVEKIL OE THE PEAK. 

selfishness was uncommonly acute ; yet he felt the impropriety of pardoning 
the attempt upon the life of the Duke of Ormond, and condescended to ask 
that faithful servant’s permission, before he would exert his authority, to 
spare the assassin. Ormond answered, that if the King chose to pardon the 
attempt to steal bis crown, he himself might easily consent, that the attempt 
upon his life, as a crime of much less importance, should also be forgiven. 
Charles, accordinglj% not only gave Blood a pardon, but endowed him with a 
pension of L.500 a year; w'hich led many persons to infer, not only that the 
King wished to preserve himself from the future attempts of this desperate 
man, but that he had it also in view to secure the services of so determined a 
ruffian, in case he should have an opportunity of employing him in his own 
line of business. There is a striking contrast between the fate of Blood, pen- 
sioned and rewarded for this audacious attempt, and that of the faithful Ed- 
wards, who may be safely said to have sacrificed his life in defense of the prop- 
erty intrusted to him ! In remuneration for his fidelity and his sufferings, 
Edwards only obtained a grant of L.200 from the Exchequer, Avith L.lOO to his 
son; but so little pains were taken about the regular discharge of these 
donatives, that the parties entitled to them were glad to sell them for half the 
sum. After this wonderful escape from justice. Blood seems to have affected 
the airs of a person in favor, and was known to solicit the suits of many of 
the old republican party, for whom he is said to have gained considerable in- 
dulgencies, when the old cavaliers, who had ruined themselves in the cause of 
Charles the First, could obtain neither countenance nor restitution. During 
the ministry called the Cabal, he was high in favor with the Duke of Bucking- 
ham; till upon their declension his favor began also to fail, and we find him 
again engaged in opposition to the Court. Blood was not likely to lie idle 
amid the busy intrigues and factions which succeeded the celebrated discovery 
of Oates. He appears to have passed again into violent opposition to the 
Court, but his steps were no longer so sounding as to be heard above his con- 
temporaries. North hints at his being involved in a plot against his former 
friend and patron the Duke of Buckingham. The passage is quoted at length 
in note CC. 

The Plot, it appears, consisted in an attempt to throw some scandalous im- 
putation upon the Duke of Buckingham, for a conspiracy to effect which Ed- 
ward Christian, Arthur O’Brien and Thomas Blood, were indicted in the King’s 
Bench, and found guiltj’, 25th June 1680. The damages sued for were laid as 
high as ten thousand pounds, for which Colonel Blood found bail. But he ap- 
pears to have been severely affected in health, as, 24th August, 1680, he de- 
parted this life in a species of lethargy. It is remarkable enough that the 
story of his death and funeral was generally regarded as fabricated, prepara- 
tive to some exploit of his own ; nay, so general was this report, that the 
coroner caused his body to be raised, and a jury to sit upon it, for the purpose 
of ensuring that the celebrated Blood had at length undergone the common 
fate of mankind. There was found unexpected difficultj’- in proving that Ihe 
•miserable corpse before the jury was that of the celebrated conspirator. It 
Avas at length recognized by some of his acquaintances, who SAVore to the pre- 
ternatural size of the thumb, so that the coroner, convinced of the identity, 
remanded this once active, and noAv quiet person to his final rest in Tothill- 
flelds. 

Such Avere the adventures of an individual, whose real exploits, whether the 
motive, the danger, or the character of the enterprise be considered equal, or 
rather surpass those fictions of violence and peril which Ave love to peruse in 
romance. They cannot, therefore, be deemed foreign to a work dedicated, 
like the present, to the preservation of extraordinary occurences, Avhether real 
or fictitious. 


EXD OF NOTES TO PEVERIL OF THE PEAK. 


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696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

• 721 Basil 4. . . • 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood . . .. .... . . 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Say Ho” ^ 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. - 

222 Last of the Mohicans .,., 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover ^ 20 

761 Wing-and* Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte .... 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman ; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins ... 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine ....20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop ! 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities j^20 

102 Hard Times 10 


THE SEASIDE LlBUAUr. -Ordinary Edition, 


118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

>200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

'' 213 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dombey arid Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

' 247 Martin Chuzzle wit ; 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes ; 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OP “ DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Ncv^er Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 


THE SEAfirDTi] T.iBEART,~Orainary EaTtton. 


9bl The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

i013 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream 10 

i018 Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love » . . . . » . r . . 10 

lOdO A Woman’s War 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin 10 

1081 A Bridge of Love 1€ 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin .................. . 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Weading-Ricg 10 

1127 Love’s W^arfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 Prom Gloom to Sunlight 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Ingledew House .... . 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or, Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 The Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins. 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Yeil. 20 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

1761 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms 20 

1844 Fair but False, and The Heiress of Arne 10 

1 883 Sunshine and Roses ......... 20 

1906 In Cupid’s Net o . . . o » . . . 1® 

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 The Twin Lieutenants. 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy 10 , 

155 The Count of Monte-Crist'0(C7(?7r&p^^6 m One Volume), 20 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

167 The Queen’s Necklace. 20 


THE 


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THE BEST AMERICAH HOME MAGAZINE. 


Price 35 Cents Copy: 1^3.50 per Year, 


The New York Fashion [Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It contains 
everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. The fashions in dress 
which it publishes are new and reliable. Particular attention is devoted to 
fashions for children of all ages. Its plates and descriptions will assist every 
lady in the preparation of her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and re- 
modeling old ones. The fashions are derived from the best houses and 
are always practical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of the New York Fashion Bazar can make her own 
dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These 'are ‘carefully cut to 
measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the garment. They are 
useful in altering old as well as in making new clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of the mag- 
azine. Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, and new patterns 
given in every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home infor- 
mation, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes for cook- 
ing have each a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duchess,!’: au- ^ 
thor of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Bertha M. Clay, and Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller. 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the best that 
can be had. 


GEORGE 



Publisher, 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


P. 0. Box 3751. 



GEAND, SQUAEE AND UPEIGHT PIANOS. 



FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exnibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and. 
Seminaries, on ac-: 
count of their su-t 
perior tone and: 
\inecLualed dura- 
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The SOHMER 
Piano is a special, 
favorite with thei 
leading musicians] 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFEURED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, Ho. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, H. Y. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAET.-POOKET EDITION. 


LATEST 

878 Homeward Bound ; or, The Chase. A 
Tale of the Seal B3' J. Feniniore 
Cooper 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to “ Home- 

ward Bound.”) By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted Knoll. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of a 

Highly Original Family. By Elsa 
D’Esterre-Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Hamilton 

AId6 .' 10 

384 On Horseback Through Asia Minor. 

By Capt. Fred Burnaliy . . . ... . . . . . 20 


ISSUES: 

385 The Headsman; or. The Abbaye des 
Vignerons. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or,'‘‘La Petite Comtesse,” 

By Octave Feuillet 10 

387 Tbe Secret of the Cliffs. By Charlotte 

French 20 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Througli Clouds 

to Sunshine. By the author of 
“ Love or Lands?” 10 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Tliomas 10 

300 Mildred Trevanion. “The Duchess” 10 

391 The Heart of IMid-Lothian. By Sir | 

Walter Scott 20 

392 Pevei il of the Peak. Bj' Sir Walter ; 

Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage pre- 
paid, by the publisher, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, IT cents for special numbers, and 
si cents for double numbers. Parties wishingthe Pocket Edititni of 'I heSeasiuic T.ihuauy must be 
careful to-mention the Pocket Etlitlon, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent. Address, 


P. O. Box 3751. 


<;E01;<1E IHIJNKO, Publisher, 

17 to '27 Vniidewatev Street, New York. 


L, 








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